INNOCENT 

HER      FANCY 
AND     HIS     FACT 

MARIE  CORELLI 


INNOCENT 

HER    FANCY    AND    HIS    FACT 


A  NOVEL 

BY 

MARIE  CORELLJ 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  LIFE  EVERLASTING,"  "ROMANCE  OF  TWO 
WORLDS,"  "BARABBAS,"  ETC. 


HODDER  &  STOUGHTON 

NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PR 


Copyright,  1914 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


BOOK   ONE:  HER   FANCY 


INNOCENT 

BOOK    ONE 

CHAPTER   I 

THE  old  by-road  went  rambling  down  into  a  dell 
of  deep  green  shadow.  It  was  a  reprobate  of  a 
road, — a  vagrant  of  the  land, — having  long  ago  wan- 
dered out  of  straight  and  even  courses  and  taken  to 
meandering  aimlessly  into  many  ruts  and  furrows 
under  arching  trees,  which  in  wet  weather  poured 
their  wreight  of  dripping  rain  upon  it  and  made  it 
little  more  than  a  mud  pool.  Between  straggling 
bushes  of  elder  and  hazel,  blackberry  and  thorn,  it 
made  its  solitary  shambling  way,  so  sunken  into  it- 
self with  long  disuse  that  neither  to  the  right  nor  to 
the  left  of  it  could  anything  be  seen  of  the  surround- 
ing country.  Hidden  behind  the  intervening  foli- 
age on  either  hand  were  rich  pastures  and  ploughed 
fields,  but  with  these  the  old  road  had  nothing  in 
common.  There  were  many  things  better  suited  to 
its  nature,  such  as  the_  melodious  notes  of  the  birds 
which  made  their  homes  year  after  year  amid  its 
bordering  thickets,  or  the  gathering  together  in 
springtime  of  thousands  of  primroses,  whose  pale, 
small,  elfin  faces  peeped  out  from  every  mossy  cor- 
ner,— or  the  scent  of  secret  violets  in  the  grass,  fill- 
ing the  air  with  the  delicate  sweetness  of  a  breathing 
made  warm  by  the  April  sun.  Or  when  the  thrill  of 
summer  drew  the  wild  roses  running  quickly  from 
the  earth  skyward,  twining  their  stems  together  in 

3 


4  INNOCENT 

fantastic  arches  and  tufts  of  deep  pink  and  flush- 
white  blossom,  and  the  briony  wreaths  with  their 
small  bright  green  stars  swung  pendent  from  over- 
shadowing boughs  like  garlands  for  a  sylvan  festi- 
val. Or  the  thousands  of  tiny  unassuming  herbs 
which  grew  up  with  the  growing  speargrass,  bring- 
ing with  them  pungent  odours  from  the  soil  as  from 
some  deep-laid  storehouse  of  precious  spices.  These 
choice  delights  were  the  old  by-road's  peculiar  pos- 
session, and  through  a  wild  maze  of  beauty  and 
fragrance  it  strayed  on  with  a  careless  awkwardness, 
getting  more  and  more  involved  in  tangles  of  green, 
— till  at  last,  recoiling  abruptly  as  it  were  upon  its 
own  steps,  it  stopped  short  at  the  entrance  to  a 
cleared  space  in  front  of  a  farmyard.  With  this  the 
old  by-road  had  evidently  no  sort  of  business  what- 
ever, and  ended  altogether,  as  it  were,  with  a  rough 
shock  of  surprise  at  finding  itself  in  such  open  quar- 
ters. No  arching  trees  or  twining  brambles  were 
here, — it  was  a  wide,  clean  brick-paved  place  chiefly 
possessed  by  a  goodly  company  of  promising  fowls, 
and  a  huge  cart-horse.  The  horse  was  tied  to  his 
manger  in  an  open  shed,  and  munched  and  munched 
with  all  the  steadiness  and  goodwill  of  the  sailor's 
wife  who  offended  Macbeth's  first  witch.  Beyond 
the  farmyard  was  the  farmhouse  itself, — a  long,  low, 
timbered  building  with  a  broad  tiled  roof  supported 
by  huge  oaken  rafters  and  crowned  with  many  ga- 
bles,— a  building  proudly  declaring  itself  as  of  the 
days  of  Elizabeth's  yeomen,  and  bearing  about  it 
the  honourable  marks  of  age  and  long  stress  of 
weather.  No  such  farmhouses  are  built  nowadays, 
for  life  has  become  with  us  less  than  a  temporary 
thing, — a  coin  to  be  spent  rapidly  as  soon  as  gained, 
too  valueless  for  any  interest  upon  it  to  be  sought  or 
desired.  In  olden  times  it  was  apparently  not  con- 
sidered such  cheap  currency.  Men  built  their  homes 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT       5 

to  last  not  only  for  their  own  lifetime,  but  for  the 
lifetime  of  their  children  and  their  children's  chil- 
dren; and  the  idea  that  their  children's  children 
might  possibly  fail  to  appreciate  the  strenuousness 
and  worth  of  their  labours  never  entered  their  sim- 
ple brains. 

The  farmyard  was  terminated  at  its  other  end  by 
a  broad  stone  archway,  which  showed  as  in  a  semi- 
circular frame  the  glint  of  scarlet  geraniums  in  the 
distance,  and  in  the  shadow  cast  by  this  embrasure 
was  the  small  unobtrusive  figure  of  a  girl.  She 
stood  idly  watching  the  hens  pecking  at  their  food 
and  driving  away  their  offspring  from  every  chance 
of  sharing  bit  or  sup  with  them, — and  as  she  noted 
the  greedy  triumph  of  the  strong  over  the  weak,  the 
great  over  the  small,  her  brows  drew  together  in  a 
slight  frown  of  something  like  scorn.  Yet  hers  was 
not  a  face  that  naturally  expressed  any  of  the  un- 
kind or  harsh  emotions.  It  was  soft  and  delicately 
featured,  and  its  rose-white  tints  were  illumined  by 
grave,  deeply-set  grey  eyes  that  were  full  of  wistful 
and  questioning  pathos.  In  stature  she  was  below 
the  middle  height  and  slight  of  build,  so  that  she 
seemed  a  mere  child  at  first  sight,  with  nothing  par- 
ticularly attractive  about  her  except,  perhaps,  her 
hands.  These  were  daintily  shaped  and  character- 
istic of  inbred  refinement,  and  as  they  hung  list- 
lessly at  her  sides  looked  scarcely  less  white  than  the 
white  cotton  frock  she  wore.  She  turned  presently 
with  a  movement  of  impatience  away  from  the  sight 
of  the  fussy  and  quarrelsome  fowls,  and  looking  up 
at  the  quaint  gables  of  the  farmhouse  uttered  a  low, 
caressing  call.  A  white  dove  flew  down  to  her  in- 
stantly, followed  by  another  and  yet  another.  She 
smiled  and  extended  her  arms,  and  a  whole  flock  of 
the  birds  came  fluttering  about  her  in  a  whirl  of 
wings,  perching  on  her  shoulders  and  alighting  at 


6  INNOCENT 

her  feet.  One  that  seemed  to  enjoy  a  position  of 
special  favouritism,  flew  straight  against  her  breast, 
— she  caught  it  and  held  it  there.  It  remained  with 
her  quite  contentedly,  while  she  stroked  its  velvety 
neck. 

"Poor  Cupid!"  she  murmured.  "You  love  me, 
don't  you?  Oh  yes,  ever  so  much!  Only  you  can't 
tell  me  so!  I'm  glad!  You  wouldn't  be  half  so 
sweet  if  you  could!" 

She  kissed  the  bird's  soft  head,  and  still  stroking 
it  scattered  all  the  others  around  her  by  a  slight 
gesture,  and  went,  followed  by  a  snowy  cloud  of 
them,  through  the  archway  into  the  garden  beyond. 
Here  there  were  flower-beds  formally  cut  and  ar- 
ranged in  the  old-fashioned  Dutch  manner,  full  of 
sweet-smelling  old-fashioned  things,  such  as  stocks 
and  lupins,  verbena  and  mignonette, — there  were 
box-borders  and  clumps  of  saxifrage,  fuchsias,  and 
geraniums, — and  roses  that  grew  in  every  possible 
way  that  roses  have  ever  grown,  or  can  ever  grow. 
The  farmhouse  fronted  fully  on  this  garden,  and  a 
magnificent  "Glory"  rose  covered  it  from  its  deep 
black  oaken  porch  to  its  highest  gable,  wreathing  it 
with  hundreds  of  pale  golden  balls  of  perfume.  A 
real  "old"  rose  it  was,  without  any  doubt  of  its  own 
intrinsic  worth  and  sweetness, — a  rose  before  which 
the  most  highly  trained  hybrids  might  hang  their 
heads  for  shame  or  wither  away  with  envy,  "for  the 
air  around  it  was  wholly  perfumed  with  its  honey- 
scented  nectar,  distilled  from  peaceful  years  upon 
years  of  sunbeams  and  stainless  dew.  The  girl,  still 
carrying  her  pet  dove,  walked  slowly  along  the  nar- 
row gravelled  paths  that  encircled  the  flower-beds 
and  box-borders,  till,  reaching  a  low  green  door  at 
the  further  end  of  the  garden,  she  opened  it  and 
passed  through  into  a  newly  mown  field,  where  sev- 
eral lads  and  men  were  about  busily  employed  in 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT       ? 

raking  together  the  last  swaths  of  a  full  crop  of  hay 
and  adding  them  to  the  last  waggon  which  stood  in 
the  centre  of  the  ground,  horseless,  and  piled  to  an 
almost  toppling  height.  One  young  fellow,  with  a 
crimson  silk  tie  knotted  about  his  open  shirt-collar, 
stood  on  top  of  the  lofty  fragrant  load,  fork  in  hand, 
tossing  the  additional  heaps  together  as  they  were 
thrown  up  to  him.  The  afternoon  sun  blazed  burn- 
ingly  down  on  his  uncovered  head  and  bare  brown 
arms,  and  as  he  shook  and  turned  the  hay  with  un- 
tiring energy,  his  movements  were  full  of  the  easy 
grace  and  picturesqueness  which  are  often  the  un- 
conscious endowment  of  those  whose  labour  keeps 
them  daily  in  the  fresh  air.  Occasional  bursts  of 
laughter  and  scraps  of  rough  song  came  from  the 
others  at  work,  and  there  was  only  one  absolutely 
quiet  figure  among  them,  that  of  an  old  man  sitting 
on  an  upturned  barrel  which  had  been  but  recently 
emptied  of  its  home-brewed  beer,  meditatively 
smoking  a  long  clay  pipe.  He  wore  a  smock  frock 
and  straw  hat,  and  under  the  brim  of  the  straw  hat, 
which  was  well  pulled  down  over  his  forehead,  his 
filmy  eyes  gleamed  with  an  alert  watchfulness.  He 
seemed  to  be  counting  every  morsel  of  hay  that  was 
being  added  to  the  load  and  pricing  it  in  his  mind, 
but  there  was  no  actual  expression  of  either  pleasure 
or  interest  on  his  features.  As  the  girl  entered  the 
field,  and  her  gown  made  a  gleam  of  white  on  the 
grass,  he  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  her,  puffing 
hard  at  his  pipe  and  watching  her  approach  only 
a  little  less  narrowly  than  he  watched  the  piling  up 
of  the  hay.  When  she  drew  sufficiently  near  him  he 
spoke. 

"Coming  to  ride  home  on  last  load?" 

She  hesitated. 

"I  don't  know.    I'm  not  sure,"  she  answered. 

"It'll  please  Robin  if  you  do,"  he  said. 


8  INNOCENT 

A  little  smile  trembled  on  her  lips.  She  bent  her 
head  over  the  dove  she  held  against  her  bosom. 

"Why  should  I  please  Robin?"  she  asked. 

His  dull  eyes  sparkled  with  a  gleam  of  anger. 

"Please  Robin,  please  me,"  he  said,  sharply — 
"Please  yourself,  please  nobody." 

"I  do  my  best  to  please  you,  Dad!"  she  said, 
gently,  yet  with  emphasis. 

He  was  silent,  sucking  at  his  pipe-stem.  Just 
then  a  whistle  struck  the  air  like  the  near  note  of  a 
thrush.  It  came  from  the  man  on  top  of  the  hay- 
waggon.  He  had  paused  in  his  labour,  and  his  face 
was  turned  towards  the  old  man  and  the  girl.  It 
was  a  handsome  face,  lighted  by  a  smile  which 
seemed  to  have  caught  a  reflex  of  the  sun. 

"All  ready,  Uncle!"  he  shouted — "Ready  and 
waiting!" 

The  old  man  drew  his  pipe  from  his  mouth. 

"There  you  are!"  he  said,  addressing  the  girl  in 
a  softer  tone, — "He's  wanting  you." 

She  moved  away  at  once.  As  she  went,  the  men 
who  were  raking  in  the  last  sweepings  of  the  hay 
stood  aside  for  her  to  pass.  One  of  them  put  a  lad- 
der against  the  wheel  of  the  waggon. 

"Going  up,  miss?"  he  asked,  with  a  cheerful 
grin. 

She  smiled  a  response,  but  said  nothing. 

The  young  fellow  on  top  of  the  load  looked  down. 
His  blue  eyes  sparkled  merrily  as  he  saw  her. 

"Are  you  coming?"  he  called. 

She  glanced  up. 

"If  you  like,"  she  answered. 

"If  I  like!"  he  echoed,  half-mockingly,  half- ten- 
derly; "You  know  I  like!  Why,  you've  got  that 
wretched  bird  with  you!" 

"He's  not  a  wretched  bird,"  she  said, — "He's  a 
darling!" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT       9 

"Well,  you  can't  climb  up  here  hugging  him  like 
that!  Let  him  go, — and  then  I'll  help  you." 

For  all  answer  she  ascended  the  ladder  lightly 
without  assistance,  still  holding  the  dove,  and  in 
another  minute  was  seated  beside  him. 

"There!"  she  said,  as  she  settled  herself  com- 
fortably down  in  the  soft,  sweet-smelling  hay. 
"Now  you've  got  your  wish,  and  I  hope  Dad  is 
happy." 

"Did  he  tell  you  to  come,  or  did  you  come  of  your 
own  accord?"  asked  the  young  man,  with  a  touch  of 
curiosity. 

"He  told  me,  of  course,"  she  answered;  "I  should 
never  have  come  of  my  own  accord." 

He  bit  his  lip  vexedly.  Turning  away  from  her 
he  called  to  the  haymakers: 

"That'll  do,  boys!    Fetch  Roger,  and  haul  in!" 

The  sun  was  nearing  the  western  horizon  and  a 
deep  apricot  glow  warmed  the  mown  field  and  the 
undulating  foliage  in  the  far  distance.  The  men 
began  to  scatter  here  and  there,  putting  aside  their 
long  wooden  rakes,  and  two  of  them  went  off  to 
bring  Roger,  the  cart-horse,  from  his  shed. 

"Uncle  Hugo!" 

The  old  man,  who  still  sat  impassively  on  the 
beer-barrel,  looked  up. 

"Ay!    What  is  it?" 

"Are  you  coming  along  with  us?" 

Uncle  Hugo  shook  his  head  despondently. 

"Why  not?    It's  the  last  load  this  year!" 

"Ay!"  He  lifted  his  straw  hat  and  waved  it  in  a 
kind  of  farewell  salute  towards  the  waggon,  repeating 
mechanically :  "The  last  load !  The  very  last ! " 

Then  there  came  a  cessation  of  movement  every- 
where for  the  moment.  It  was  a  kind  of  breathing 
pause  in  Nature's  everlasting  chorus, — a  sudden 


10  INNOCENT 

rest,  as  it  seemed,  in  the  very  spaces  of  the  air.  The 
young  man  threw  himself  down  on  the  hay-load  so 
that  he  faced  the  girl,  who  sat  quiet,  caressing  the 
dove  she  held.  He  was  undeniably  good-looking, 
with  an  open  nobility  of  feature  which  is  uncommon 
enough  among  well-born  and  carefully-nurtured 
specimens  of  the  human  race,  and  is  perhaps  still 
more  rarely  to  be  found  among  those  whose  lot  in 
life  is  one  of  continuous  hard  manual  labour.  Just 
now  he  looked  singularly  attractive,  the  more  so, 
perhaps,  because  he  was  unconscious  of  it.  He 
stretched  out  one  hand  towards  the  girl  and  touched 
the  hem  of  her  white  frock. 

"Are  you  feeling  kind?" 

Her  eyes  lightened  with  a  gleam  of  merriment. 

"I  am  always  kind." 

"Not  to  me!  Not  as  kind  as  you  are  to  that 
bird." 

"Oh,  poor  Cupid!    You're  jealous  of  him!" 

He  moved  a  little  nearer  to  her. 

"Perhaps  I  am!"  And  he  spoke  in  a  lower  tone. 
"Perhaps  I  am,  Innocent!  I  grudge  him  the  privi- 
lege of  lying  there  on  your  dear  little  white  breast! 
I  am  envious  when  you  kiss  him!  I  want  you  to 
kiss  me!" 

His  voice  was  tremulous, — he  turned  up  his  face 
audaciously. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  smile. 

"I  will  if  you  like!"  she  said.  "I  should  think  no 
more  of  kissing  you  than  of  kissing  Cupid!" 

He  drew  back  with  a  gesture  of  annoyance. 

"I  wouldn't  be  kissed  at  all  that  way,"  he  said, 
hotly. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  it's  not  the  right  way.  A  bird  is  not 
a  man!" 

She  laughed  merrily. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT  11 

"Nor  a  man  a  bird,  though  he  may  have  a  bird's 
name!"  she  said.  "Oh,  Robin,  how  clever  you 
are!" 

He  leaned  closer. 

"Let  Cupid  go!"  he  pleaded,— "I  want  to  ride 
home  on  the  last  load  with  you  alone." 

Another  little  peal  of  laughter  escaped  her. 

"I  declare  you  think  Cupid  an  actual  person!" 
she  said.  "If  he'll  go,  he  shaU.  But  I  think  he'll 
stay." 

She  loosened  her  hold  of  the  dove,  which,  released, 
gravely  hopped  up  to  her  shoulder  and  sat  there 
pruning  its  wing.  She  glanced  round  at  it. 

"I  told  you  so!"  she  said, — "He's  a  fixture." 

"I  don't  mind  him  so  much  up  there,"  said  Robin, 
and  he  ventured  to  take  one  of  her  hands  in  his 
own, — "but  he  always  has  so  much  of  you;  he 
nestles  under  your  chin  and  is  caressed  by  your 
sweet  lips, — he  has  all,  and  I  have, — nothing!" 

"You  have  one  hand,"  said  Innocent,  with  demure 
gravity. 

"But  no  heart  with  it!"  he  said,  wistfully.  "In- 
nocent, can  you  never  love  me?" 

She  was  silent,  looking  at  him  critically, — then  she 
gave  a  little  sigh. 

"I'm  afraid  not!  But  I  have  often  thought 
about  it." 

"You  have?" — and  his  eyes  grew  very  tender. 

"Oh  yes,  often !  You  see,  it  isn't  your  fault  at  all. 
You  are — well!" — here  she  surveyed  him  with  a 
whimsical  air  of  admiration, — "you  are  quite  a 
beautiful  man!  You  have  a  splendid  figure  and  a 
good  face,  and  kind  eyes  and  well-shaped  feet  and 
hands, — and  I  like  the  look  of  you  just  now  with 
that  open  collar  and  that  gleam  of  sunlight  in  your 
curly  hair — and  your  throat  is  almost  white,  except 
for  a  touch  of  sunburn,  which  is  rather  becoming! — 


12  INNOCENT 

especially  with  that  crimson  silk  tie !  I  suppose  you 
put  that  tie  on  for  effect,  didn't  you?" 

He  flushed,  and  laughed  lightly. 

"Naturally!    To  please  you!" 

"Really?  How  thoughtful  of  you!  Well,  you 
are  charming, — and  I  shouldn't  mind  kissing  you  at 
all.  But  it  wouldn't  be  for  love." 

"Wouldn't  it?    What  would  it  be  for,  then?" 

Her  face  lightened  up  with  the  illumination  of  an 
inward  mirth  and  mischief. 

"Only  because  you  look  pretty!"  she  answered. 

He  threw  aside  her  hand  with  an  angry  gesture  of 
impatience. 

"You  want  to  make  a  fool  of  me!"  he  said,  petu- 
lantly. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't!  You  are  just  lovely,  and  I  tell 
you  so.  That  is  not  making  a  fool  of  you!" 

"Yes,  it  is!  A  man  is  never  lovely.  A  woman 
may  be." 

"Well,  I'm  not,"  said  Innocent,  placidly.  "That's 
why  I  admire  the  loveliness  of  others." 

"You  are  lovely  to  me,"  he  declared,  passionately. 

She  smiled.  There  was  a  touch  of  compassion  in 
the  smile. 

"Poor  Robin!"  she  said. 

At  that  moment  the  hidden  goddess  in  her  soul 
arose  and  asserted  her  claim  to  beauty.  A  rare  in- 
definable charm  of  exquisite  tenderness  and  fasci- 
nation seemed  to  environ  her  small  and  delicate 
personality  with  an  atmosphere  of  resistless  attrac- 
tion. The  man  beside  her  felt  it,  and  his  heart  beat 
quickly  with  a  thrilling  hope  of  conquest. 

"So  you  pity  me!"  he  said, — "Pity  is  akin  to 
love."  ' 

"But  kinsfolk  seldom  agree,"  she  replied.  "I 
only  pity  you  because  you  are  foolish.  No  one  but 
a  very  foolish  fellow  would  think  me  lovely." 


He  raised  himself  a  little  and  peered  over  the  edge 
of  the  hay-load  to  see  if  there  was  any  sign  of  the 
men  returning  with  Roger,  but  there  was  no  one 
in  the  field  now  except  the  venerable  personage  he 
called  Uncle  Hugo,  who  was  still  smoking  away  his 
thoughts,  as  it  were,  in  a  dream  of  tobacco.  And 
he  once  more  caught  the  hand  he  had  just  let  go 
and  covered  it  with  kisses. 

"There!"  he  said,  lifting  his  head  and  showing 
an  eager  face  lit  by  amorous  eyes.  "Now  you  know 
how  lovely  you  are  to  me!  I  should  like  to  kiss 
your  mouth  like  that, — for  you  have  the  sweetest 
mouth  in  the  world!  And  you  have  the  pret- 
tiest hair, — not  raw  gold  which  I  hate, — but  soft 
brown,  with  delicious  little  sunbeams  lost  in  it, 
— and  such  a  lot  of  it!  I've  seen  it  all  down,  re- 
member! And  your  eyes  would  draw  the  heart 
out  of  any  man  and  send  him  anywhere, 
— yes,  Innocent! — anywhere, — to  Heaven  or  to 
Hell!" 

She  coloured  a  little. 

"That's  beautiful  talk!"  she  said,— "It's  like  poe- 
try, but  it  isn't  true!" 

"It  is  true!"  he  said,  with  fond  insistence.  "And 
I'll  make  you  love  me!" 

"Ah,  no!"  A  look  of  the  coldest  scorn  suddenly 
passed  over  her  features — "that's  not  possible.  You 
could  never  make  me  do  anything!  And — it's  rude 
of  you  to  speak  in  such  a  way.  Please  let  go  my 
hand!" 

He  dropped  it  instantly,  and  sprang  erect. 

"All  right!  I'll  leave  you  to  yourself, — and  Cu- 
pid!" Here  he  laughed  rather  bitterly.  "What 
made  you  give  that  bird  such  a  name?" 

"I  found  it  in  a  book,"  she  answered, — "It's  a 
name  that  was  given  to  the  god  of  Love  when  he  was 
a  little  boy." 


14  INNOCENT 

"I  know  that!    Please  don't  teach  me  my  A.B.C.," 
said  Robin,  half-sulkily. 
She  leaned  back  laughing,  and  singing  softly: 

<fLove  was  once  a  little  boy, 

Heigh-ho,  Heigh-ho! 
Then  'twas  sweet  with  him  to  toy, 
Heigh-ho,  Heigh-ho!" 

Her  eyes  sparkled  in  the  sun, — a  tress  of  her  hair, 
ruffled  by  the  hay,  escaped  and  flew  like  a  little  web 
of  sunbeams  against  her  cheek.  He  looked  at  her 
moodily. 

"You  might  go  on  with  the  song,"  he  said, — 
"  'Love  is  now  a  little  man ' " 

"  'And  a  very  naughty  one!' "  she  hummed,  with 
a  mischievous  upward  glance. 

Despite  his  inward  vexation,  he  smiled. 

"Say  what  you  like,  Cupid  is  a  ridiculous  name 
for  a  dove,"  he  said. 

"It  rhymes  to  stupid,"  she  replied,  demurely, — 
"And  the  rhyme  expresses  the  nature  of  the  bird 
and — the  god!" 

"Pooh!     You  think  that  clever!" 

"I  don't!  I  never  said  a  clever  thing  in  my  life. 
I  shouldn't  know  how.  Everything  clever  has  been 
written  over  and  over  again  by  people  in  books." 

"Hang  books!"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  always  books 
with  you !  I  wish  we  had  never  found  that  old  chest 
of  musty  volumes  in  the  panelled  room." 

"Do  you?  Then  you  are  sillier  than  I  thought 
you  were.  The  books  taught  me  all  I  know, — about 
love!" 

"About  love !  You  don't  know  what  love  means ! " 
he  declared,  trampling  the  hay  he  stood  upon  with 
impatience.  "You  read  and  read,  and  you  get  the 
queerest  ideas  into  your  head,  and  all  the  tune  the 
world  goes  on  in  ways  that  are  quite  different  from 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     15 

what  you  are  thinking  about, — and  lovers  walk 
through  the  fields  and  lanes  everywhere  near  us 
every  year,  and  you  never  appear  to  see  them  or  to 
envy  them " 

"Envy  them!"  The  girl  opened  her  eyes  wide. 
"Envy  them!  Oh,  Cupid,  hear!  Envy  them! 
Why  should  I  envy  them?  Who  could  envy  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Pettigrew?" 

"What  nonsense  you  talk!"  he  exclaimed, — "Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Pettigrew  are  married  folk,  not  lovers!" 

"But  they  were  lovers  once,"  she  said, — "and 
only  three  years  ago.  I  remember  them,  walking 
through  the  lanes  and  fields  as  you  say,  with  arms 
round  each  other, — and  Mrs.  Pettigrew's  hands  were 
always  dreadfully  red,  and  Mr.  Pettigrew's  fingers 
were  always  dirty, — and  they  married  very  quickly, 
— and  now  they've  got  two  dreadful  babies  that 
scream  all  day  and  all  night,  and  Mrs.  Pettigrew's 
hair  is  never  tidy  and  Pettigrew  himself — well,  you 
know  what  he  does! " 

"Gets  drunk  every  night,"  interrupted  Robin, 
crossly, — "I  know!  And  I  suppose  you  think  I'm 
another  Pettigrew?" 

"Oh  dear,  no!"  And  she  laughed  with  the  hearti- 
est merriment.  "You  never  could,  you  never  would 
be  a  Pettigrew !  But  it  all  comes  to  the  same  thing 
— love  ends  in  marriage,  doesn't  it?" 

"It  ought  to,"  said  Robin,  sententiously. 

"And  marriage  ends — in  Pettigrews!" 

"Innocent!" 

"Don't  say  'Innocent'  in  that  reproachful  way! 
It  makes  me  feel  quite  guilty!  Now, — if  you  talk 
of  names, — there's  a  name  to  give  a  poor  girl, — In- 
nocent! Nobody  ever  heard  of  such  a  name " 

"You're  wrong.  There  were  thirteen  Popes  named 
Innocent  between  the  years  402  and  1724,"  said 
Robin,  promptly, — "and  one  of  them,  Innocent  the 


16  INNOCENT 

Eleventh,  is  a  character  in  Browning's  'Ring  and  the 
Book.' ' 

"Dear  me!"  And  her  eyes  flashed  provocatively. 
"You  astound  me  with  your  wisdom,  Robin!  But 
all  the  same,  I  don't  believe  any  girl  ever  had  such 
a  name  as  Innocent,  in  spite  of  thirteen  Popes. 
And  perhaps  the  Thirteen  had  other  names?" 

"They  had  other  baptismal  names,"  he  explained, 
with  a  learned  air.  "For  instance,  Pope  Innocent 
the  Third  was  Cardinal  Lothario  before  he  became 
Pope,  and  he  wrote  a  book  called  'De  Contemptu 
Mundi  sive  de  Miseria  Humanae  Conditionis ! ' ' 

She  looked  at  him  as  he  uttered  the  sonorous 
sounding  Latin,  with  a  comically  respectful  air  of 
attention,  and  then  laughed  like  a  child, — laughed 
till  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 

"Oh  Robin,  Robin!"  she  cried — "You  are  simply 
delicious!  The  most  enchanting  boy!  That  crim- 
son tie  and  that  Latin !  No  wonder  the  village  girls 
adore  you !  'De,' — what  is  it?  'Contemptu  Mundi/ 
and  Misery  Human  Conditions!  Poor  Pope!  He 
never  sat  on  top  of  a  hay-load  in  his  life  I'm  sure! 
But  you  see  his  name  was  Lothario, — not  Inno- 
cent." 

"His  baptismal  name  was  Lothario,"  said  Robin, 
severely. 

She  was  suddenly  silent. 

"Well!  I  suppose  /  was  baptised?"  she  queried, 
after  a  pause. 

"I  suppose  so." 

"I  wonder  if  I  have  any  other  name?  I  must 
ask  Dad." 

Robin  looked  at  her  curiously; — then  his  thoughts 
were  diverted  by  the  sight  of  a  squat  stout  woman  in 
a  brown  spotted  print  gown  and  white  sunbonnet, 
who  just  then  trotted  briskly  into  the  hay-field,  call- 
ing at  the  top  of  her  voice: 


"Mister  Jocelyn!  Mister  Jocelyn!  You're 
wanted!" 

"There's  Priscilla  calling  Uncle  in,"  he  said,  and 
making  a  hollow  of  his  hands  he  shouted : 

"Hullo,  Priscilla!     What  is  it?" 

The  sunbonnet  gave  an  upward  jerk  in  his  direc- 
tion and  the  wearer  shrilled  out: 

"Doctor's  come!     Wan  tin'  yer  Uncle!" 

The  old  man,  who  had  been  so  long  quietly  seated 
on  the  upturned  barrel,  now  rose  stiffly,  and  knock- 
ing out  the  ashes  of  his  pipe  turned  towards  the 
farmhouse.  But  before  he  went  he  raised  his  straw 
hat  again  and  stood  for  a  moment  bareheaded  in 
the  roseate  glory  of  the  sinking  sun.  Innocent 
sprang  upright  on  the  load  of  hay,  and  standing  al- 
most at  the  very  edge  of  it,  shaded  her  eyes  with 
one  hand  from  the  strong  light,  and  looked  at  him. 

"Dad!"  she  called— "Dad,  shall  I  come?" 

He  turned  his  head  towards  her. 

"No,  lass,  no!    Stay  where  you  are,  with  Robin." 

He  walked  slowly,  and  with  evident  feebleness, 
across  the  length  of  the  field  which  divided  him  from 
the  farmhouse  garden,  and  opening  the  green  gate 
leading  thereto,  disappeared.  The  sunbonneted 
individual  called  Priscilla  walked  or  rather  waddled 
towards  the  hay-waggon,  and  setting  her  arms  akim- 
bo on  her  broad  hips,  looked  up  with  a  grin  at  the 
young  people  on  top. 

"Well!  Ye're  a  fine  couple  up  there!  What  are 
ye  a-doin'  of?" 

"Never  mind  what  we're  doing,"  said  Robin,  im- 
patiently. "I  say,  Priscilla,  do  you  think  Uncle 
Hugo  is  really  ill?" 

Priscilla's  face,  which  was  the  colour  of  an  ancient 
nutmeg,  and  almost  as  deeply  marked  with  con- 
trasting lines  of  brown  and  yellow,  showed  no  emo- 
tion. 


18  INNOCENT 

"He  ain't  hisself,"  she  said,  bluntly. 

"No,"  said  Innocent,  seriously, — "I'm  sure  he 
isn't." 

Priscilla  jerked  her  sunbonnet  a  little  further 
back,  showing  some  tags  of  dusty  grey  hair. 

"He  ain't  been  hisself  for  this  past  year,"  she 
went  on — "Mr.  Slowton,  bein'  only  a  kind  of  village 
physic-bottle,  don't  know  much,  an'  yer  uncle  ain't 
bin  satisfied.  Now  there's  another  doctor  from  Lon- 
don staying  up  'ere  for  'is  own  poor  'elth,  and  yer 
Uncle  said  he'd  like  to  'ave  'is  opinion, — so  Mr. 
Slowton,  bein'  obligin'  though  ignorant,  'as  got  'im 
in  to  see  yer  Uncle,  and  there  they  both  is,  in  the 
best  parlour,  with  special  wine  an'  seedies  on  the 
table." 

"Oh,  it'll  be  all  right!"  said  Robin,  cheerfully  — 
"Uncle  Hugo  is  getting  old,  of  course,  and  he's  a 
bit  fanciful." 

Priscilla  sniffed  the  air. 

"Mebbe — and  mebbe  not!  What  are  you  two 
waitin'  for  now?" 

"For  the  men  to  come  back  with  Roger.  Then 
we'll  haul  home." 

"You'll  'ave  to  wait  a  bit  longer,  I'm  thinkin'," 
said  Priscilla — "They's  all  drinkin'  beer  in  the  yard 
now  an'  tappin'  another  barrel  to  drink  at  when 
the  waggon  comes  in.  There's  no  animals  on  earth 
as  ever  thirsty  as  men!  Well,  good  luck  t'ye!  I 
must  go,  or  there'll  be  a  smell  of  burnin'  supper- 
cakes." 

She  settled  her  sunbonnet  anew  and  trotted  away, 
• — looking  rather  like  a  large  spotted  mushroom  mys- 
teriously set  in  motion  and  rolling,  rather  than  walk- 
ing, off  the  field. 

When  she  was  gone,  Innocent  sat  down  again 
upon  the  hay,  this  time  without  Cupid.  He  had 
flown  off  to  join  his  mates  on  the  farmhouse  gables. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     19 

"Dad  is  really  not  well,"  she  said,  thoughtfully; 
"I  feel  anxious  about  him.  If  he  were  to  die,— 

At  the  mere  thought  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"He  must  die  some  day,"  answered  Robin,  gently, 
— "and  he's  old, — nigh  on  eighty." 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  remember  that,"  she  mur- 
mured. "It's  the  cruellest  part  of  life — that  people 
should  grow  old,  and  die,  and  pass  away  from  us. 
What  should  I  do  without  Dad?  I  should  be  all 
alone,  with  no  one  in  the  world  to  care  what  be- 
comes of  me." 

"7  care!"  he  said,  softly. 

"Yes,  you  care — just  now" — she  answered,  with 
a  sigh;  "and  it's  very  kind  of  you.  I  wish  I  could 
care — in  the  way  you  want  me  to — but " 

"Will  you  try?"  he  pleaded. 

"I  do  try — really  I  do  try  hard,"  she  said,  with 
quite  a  piteous  earnestness, — "but  I  can't  feel  what 
isn't  here," — and  she  pressed  both  hands  on  her 
breast — "I  care  more  for  Roger  the  horse,  and  Cu- 
pid the  dove,  than  I  do  for  you!  It's  quite  awful 
of  me — but  there  it  is!  I  love — I  simply  adore" — 
and  she  threw  out  her  arms  with  an  embracing  ges- 
ture— "all  the  trees  and  plants  and  birds! — and 
everything  about  the  farm  and  the  farmhouse  itself 
— it's  just  the  sweetest  home  in  the  world!  There's 
not  a  brick  or  a  stone  in  it  that  I  would  not  want 
to  kiss  if  I  had  to  leave  it — but  I  never  felt  that 
way  for  you!  And  yet  I  like  you  very,  very  much, 
Robin ! — I  wish  I  could  see  you  married  to  some  nice 
girl,  only  I  don't  know  one  really  nice  enough." 

"Nor  do  I!"  he  answered,  with  a  laugh,  "except 
yourself!  But  never  mind,  dear! — we  won't  talk 
of  it  any  more,  just  now  at  any  rate.  I'm  a  patient 
sort  of  chap.  I  can  wait!" 

"How  long?"  she  queried,  with  a  wondering 
glance. 


20  INNOCENT 

"All  my  life!"  he  answered,  simply. 

A  silence  fell  between  them.  Some  inward  touch 
of  embarrassment  troubled  the  girl,  for  the  colour 
came  and  went  flutteringly  in  her  soft  cheeks  and 
her  eyes  drooped  under  his  fervent  gaze.  The  glow- 
ing light  of  the  sky  deepened,  and  the  sun  began 
to  sink  in  a  mist  of  bright  orange,  which  was  re- 
flected over  all  the  visible  landscape  with  a  warm 
and  vivid  glory.  That  strange  sense  of  beauty  and 
mystery  which  thrills  the  air  with  the  approach  of 
evening,  made  all  the  simple  pastoral  scene  a  dream 
of  incommunicable  loveliness, — and  the  two  youth- 
ful figures,  throned  on  their  high  dais  of  golden- 
green  hay,  might  have  passed  for  the  rustic  Adam 
and  Eve  of  some  newly  created  Eden.  They  were 
both  very  quiet, — with  the  tense  quietness  of  hearts 
that  are  too  full  for  speech.  A  joy  in  the  present 
was  shadowed  with  a  dim  unconscious  fear  of  the 
future  in  both  their  thoughts, — though  neither  of 
them  would  have  expressed  their  feelings  in  this 
regard  one  to  the  other.  A  thrush  warbled  in  a 
hedge  close  by,  and  the  doves  on  the  farmhouse  ga- 
bles spread  their  white  wings  to  the  late  sunlight, 
cooing  amorously.  And  again  the  man  spoke,  with 
a  gentle  firmness : 

"All  my  life  I  shall  love  you,  Innocent!  What- 
ever happens,  remember  that!  All  my  life!" 


CHAPTER   II 

THE  swinging  open  of  a  great  gate  at  the  further 
end  of  the  field  disturbed  the  momentary  silence 
which  followed  his  words.  The  returning  haymak- 
ers appeared  on  the  scene,  leading  Roger  at  their 
head,  and  Innocent  jumped  up  eagerly,  glad  of  the 
interruption. 

"Here  comes  old  Roger!"  she  cried, — "bless  his 
heart!  Now,  Robin,  you  must  try  to  look  very 
stately!  Are  you  going  to  ride  home  standing  or 
sitting?" 

He  was  visibly  annoyed  at  her  light  indifference. 

"Unless  I  may  sit  beside  you  with  my  arm  round 
your  waist,  in  the  Pettigrew  fashion,  I'd  rather 
stand!"  he  retorted.  "You  said  Pettigrew's  hands 
were  always  dirty — so  are  mine.  I'd  better  keep 
my  distance  from  you.  One  can't  make  hay  and 
remain  altogether  as  clean  as  a  new  pin!" 

She  gave  an  impatient  gesture. 

"You  always  take  things  up  in  the  wrong  way," 
she  said — "I  never  thought  you  a  bit  like  Pettigrew ! 
Your  hands  are  not  really  dirty!" 

"They  are!"  he  answered,  obstinately.  "Besides, 
you  don't  want  my  arm  round  your  waist,  do  you?" 

"Certainly  not!"  she  replied,  quickly. 

"Then  I'll  stand,"  he  said;— "You  shall  be  en- 
throned like  a  queen  and  I'll  be  your  bodyguard. 
Here,  wait  a  minute!" 

He  piled  up  the  hay  in  the  middle  of  the  load  till 
it  made  a  high  cushion  where,  in  obedience  to  his 
gesture,  Innocent  seated  herself.  The  men  leading 

21 


22  INNOCENT 

the  horse  were  now  close  about  the  waggon,  and 
one  of  them,  grinning  sheepishly  at  the  girl,  offered 
her  a  daintily-made  wreath  of  wild  roses,  from  which 
all  the  thorns  had  been  carefully  removed. 

"Looks  prutty,  don't  it?"  he  said. 

She  accepted  it  with  a  smile. 

"Is  it  for  me?  Oh,  Larry,  how  nice  of  you!  Am 
I  to  wear  it?" 

"If  ye  loike!"    This  with  another  grin. 

She  set  it  on  her  uncovered  head  and  became  at 
once  a  model  for  a  Romney;  the  wild  roses  with 
their  delicate  pink  and  white  against  her  brown  hair 
suited  the  hues  of  her  complexion  and  the  tender 
grey  of  her  eyes; — and  when,  thus  adorned,  she 
looked  up  at  her  companion,  he  was  fain  to  turn 
away  quickly  lest  his  admiration  should  be  too 
plainly  made  manifest  before  profane  witnesses. 

Roger,  meanwhile,  was  being  harnessed  to  the 
waggon.  He  was  a  handsome  creature  of  his  kind, 
and  he  knew  it.  As  he  turned  his  bright  soft  glance 
from  side  to  side  with  a  conscious  pride  in  himself 
and  his  surroundings,  he  seemed  to  be  perfectly 
aware  that  the  knots  of  bright  red  ribbon  tied  in  his 
long  and  heavy  mane  meant  some  sort  of  festival. 
When  all  was  done  the  haymakers  gathered  round. 

"Good  luck  to  the  last  load,  Mr.  Clifford!"  they 
shouted. 

"Good  luck  to  you  all!"  answered  Robin,  cheerily. 

"Good  luck  t'ye,  Miss!"  and  they  raised  their 
sun-browned  faces  to  the  girl  as  she  looked  down 
upon  them.  "As  fine  a  crop  and  as  fair  a  load  next 
year ! " 

"Good  luck  to  you!"  she  responded — then  sud- 
denly bending  a  little  forward  she  said  almost 
breathlessly:  "Please  wish  luck  to  Dad!  He's  not 
well — and  he  isn't  here!  Oh,  please  don't  forget 
him!" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     23 

They  all  stared  at  her  for  a  moment,  as  if  startled 
or  surprised,  then  they  all  joined  in  a  stentorian 
shout. 

"That's  right,  Miss!  Good  luck  to  the  master! 
Many  good  years  of  life  to  him,  and  better  crops 
every  year!" 

She  drew  back,  smiling  her  thanks,  but  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes.  And  then  they  all  started  in  a 
pretty  procession — the  men  leading  Roger,  who 
paced  along  the  meadow  with  equine  dignity,  shak- 
ing his  ribbons  now  and  again  as  if  he  were  fully 
conscious  of  carrying  something  more  valuable  than 
mere  hay, — and  above  them  all  smiled  the  girl's 
young  face,  framed  in  its  soft  brown  hair  and 
crowned  with  the  wild  roses,  while  at  her  side  stood 
the  very  type  of  a  model  Englishman,  with  all  the 
promise  of  splendid  life  and  vigour  in  the  build  of 
his  form,  the  set  of  his  shoulders  and  the  poise  of 
his  handsome  head.  It  was  a  picture  of  youth  and 
beauty  and  lovely  nature  set  against  the  warm  even- 
ing tint  of  the  sky, — one  of  those  pictures  which, 
though  drawn  for  the  moment  only  on  the  minds  of 
those  who  see  it,  is  yet  never  forgotten. 

Arriving  presently  at  a  vast  enclosure,  in  which 
already  two  loads  of  hay  were  being  stacked,  they 
were  hailed  with  a  cheery  shout  by  several  other 
labourers  at  work,  and  very  soon  a  strong  smell  of 
beer  began  to  mingle  with  the  odour  of  the  hay  and 
the  dewy  scent  of  the  elder  flowers  and  sweet  briar 
in  the  hedges  close  by. 

"Have  a  drop,  Mr.  Clifford!"  said  one  tall,  power- 
ful-looking man  who  seemed  to  be  a  leader  among 
the  others,  holding  out  a  pewter  tankard  full  and 
frothing  over. 

Robin  Clifford  smiled  and  put  his  lips  to  it. 

"Just  to  your  health,  Landon!"  he  said — "I'm 
not  a  drinking  man." 


24  INNOCENT 

"Haymaking's  thirsty  work,"  commented  the 
other.  "Will  Miss  Jocelyn  do  us  the  honour?" 

The  girl  made  a  wry  little  face. 

"I  don't  like  beer,  Mr.  Landon,"  she  said — "It's 
horrid  stuff,  even  when  it's  home-brewed!  I  help 
to  make  it,  you  see!" 

She  laughed  gaily — they  all  laughed  with  her,  and 
then  there  was  a  little  altercation  which  ended  in 
her  putting  her  lips  to  the  tankard  just  offered  to 
Robin  and  sipping  the  merest  fleck  of  its  foam.  Lan- 
don watched  her, — and  as  she  returned  the  cup,  put 
his  own  mouth  to  the  place  hers  had  touched  and 
drank  the  whole  draught  off  greedily.  Robin  did 
not  see  his  action,  but  the  girl  did,  and  a  deep  blush 
of  offence  suffused  her  cheeks.  She  rose,  a  little 
nervously. 

"I'll  go  in  now,"  she  said — "Dad  must  be  alone 
by  this  time." 

"All  right!"  And  Robin  jumped  lightly  from  the 
top  of  the  load  to  the  ground  and  put  the  ladder  up 
for  her  to  descend.  She  came  down  daintily,  turn- 
ing her  back  to  him  so  that  the  hem  of  her  neat 
white  skirt  fell  like  a  little  snowflake  over  each 
rung  of  the  ladder,  veiling  not  only  her  slim  ankles 
but  the  very  heels  of  her  shoes.  When  she  was 
nearly  at  the  bottom,  he  caught  her  up  and  set 
her  lightly  on  the  ground. 

"There  you  are!"  he  said,  with  a  laugh — "When 
you  get  into  the  house  you  can  tell  Uncle  that  you 
are  a  Rose  Queen,  a  Hay  Queen,  and  Queen  of 
everything  and  everyone  on  Briar  Farm,  including 
your  very  humble  servant,  Robin  Clifford!" 

"And  your  humblest  of  slaves,  Ned  Landon!" 
added  Landon,  with  a  quick  glance,  doffing  his  cap. 
"Mr.  Clifford  mustn't  expect  to  have  it  all  his  own 
way!" 

"What  the  devil  are  you  talking  about?"   de- 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     25 

manded  Robin,  turning  upon  him  with  a  sudden 
fierceness. 

Innocent  gave  him  an  appealing  look. 

"Don't! — Oh,  don't  quarrel!"  she  whispered, — 
and  with  a  parting  nod  to  the  whole  party  of  work- 
ers she  hurried  away. 

With  her  disappearance  came  a  brief  pause  among 
the  men.  Then  Robin,  turning  away  from  Landon, 
proceeded  to  give  various  orders.  He  was  a,  person 
in  authority,  and  as  everyone  knew,  was  likely  to 
be  the  owner  of  the  farm  when  his  uncle  was  dead. 
Landon  went  close  up  to  him. 

"Mr.  Clifford,"  he  said,  somewhat  thickly,  "you 
heard  what  I  said  just  now?  You  mustn't  expect 
to  have  it  all  your  own  way!  There's  other  men 
after  the  girl  as  well  as  you!" 

Clifford  glanced  him  up  and  down. 

"Yourself,  I  suppose?"  he  retorted. 

"And  why  not?"  sneered  Landon. 

"Only  because  there  are  two  sides  to  every  ques- 
tion/' said  Clifford,  carelessly,  with  a  laugh.  "And 
no  decision  can  be  arrived  at  till  both  are  heard!" 

He  climbed  up  among  the  other  men  and  set  to 
work,  stacking  steadily,  and  singing  in  a  fine  soft 
baritone  the  old  fifteenth-century  song: 

"Yonder  comes  a  courteous  knight, 

Lustily  raking  over  the  hay, 
He  was  well  aware  of  a  bonny  lass, 

As  she  came  wandering  over  the  way. 
Then  she  sang  Downe  a  downe,  hey  downe  derry ! 

"Jove  you  speed,  fair  ladye,  he  said, 

Among  the  leaves  that  be  so  greene, 
If  I  were  a  king  and  wore  a  crown, 

Full  soon  faire  Ladye  shouldst  thou  be  queene. 
Then  she  sang  Downe  a  downe,  hey  downe  derry !" 

Landon  looked  up  at  him  with  a  dark  smile. 


26  INNOCENT 

"Those  laugh  best  who  laugh  last!"  he  muttered, 
"And  a  whistling  throstle  has  had  its  neck  wrung 
before  now!" 

Meanwhile  Innocent  had  entered  the  farmhouse. 
Passing  through  the  hall,  which, — unaltered  since  the 
days  of  its  original  building, — was  vaulted  high  and 
heavily  timbered,  she  went  first  into  the  kitchen  to 
see  Priscilla,  who,  assisted  by  a  couple  of  strong  rosy- 
cheeked  girls,  did  all  the  housework  and  cooking  of 
the  farm.  She  found  that  personage  rolling  out 
pastry  and  talking  volubly  as  she  rolled: 

"Ah!  You'll  never  come  to  much  good,  Jenny 
Spinner,"  she  cried.  "What  with  a  muck  of  dirty 
dishes  in  one  corner  and  a  muddle  of  ragged  clouts 
in  another,  you're  the  very  model  of  a  wife  for  a 
farm  hand!  Can't  sew  a  gown  for  yerself  neither, 
but  bound  to  send  it  into  town  to  be  made  for  ye, 
and  couldn't  put  a  button  on  a  pair  of  breeches  for 
fear  of  'urtin'  yer  delicate  fingers!  Well!  God  'elp 
ye  when  the  man  comes  as  ye're  lookin'  for!  He'll 
be  a  fool  anyhow,  for  all  men  are  that, — but  he'll 
be  twice  a  fool  if  he  takes  you  for  a  life-satchel  on 
his  shoulders!" 

Jenny  Spinner  endured  this  tirade  patiently,  and 
went  on  with  the  washing-up  in  which  she  was  en- 
gaged, only  turning  her  head  to  look  at  Innocent  as 
she  appeared  suddenly  in  the  kitchen  doorway,  with 
her  hair  slightly  dishevelled  and  the  wreath  of  wild 
roses  crowning  her  brows. 

"Priscilla,  where's  Dad?"  she  asked. 

"Lord  save  us,  lovey!  You  gave  me  a  real  scare 
coming  in  like  that  with  them  roses  on  yer  head 
like  a  pixie  out  of  the  woods!  The  master?  He's 
just  where  the  doctors  left  'im,  sittin'  in  his  easy- 
chair  and  looking  out  o'  window." 

"Was  it — was  it  all  right,  do  you  think?"  asked 
the  girl,  hesitatingly. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     27 

"Now,  lovey,  don't  ask  me  about  doctors,  'cos  I 
don't  know  nothin'  and  wants  to  know  nothin',  for 
they  be  close-tongued  folk  who  never  sez  what  they 
thinks  lest  they  get  their  blessed  selves  into  hot 
water.  And  whether  it's  all  right  or  all  wrong,  I 
couldn't  tell  ye,  for  the  two  o'  them  went  out  to- 
gether, and  Mr.  Slpwton  sez  'Good-arternoon,  Miss 
Friday!'  quite  perlite  like,  and  the  other  gentleman 
he  lifts  'is  'at  quite  civil,  so  I  should  say  'twas  all 
wrong.  For  if  you  mark  me,  lovey,  men's  allus  ex- 
tra perlite  when  they  thinks  there's  goin'  to  be 
trouble,  hopin'  they'll  get  somethin'  for  theirselves 
out  of  it," 

Innocent  hardly  waited  to  hear  her  last  words. 

"I'm  going  to  Dad,"  she  said,  quickly,  and  disap- 
peared. 

Priscilla  Friday  stopped  for  a  minute  in  the  roll- 
ing-out of  her  pastry.  Some  great  stress  of  thought 
appeared  to  be  working  behind  her  wrinkled  brow, 
for  she  shook  her  head,  pursed  her  lips  and  rolled 
up  her  eyes  a  great  many  times.  Then  she  gave  a 
short  sigh  and  went  on  with  her  work. 

The  farmhouse  was  a  rambling  old  place,  full  of 
quaint  corners,  arches  and  odd  little  steps  up  and 
down  leading  to  cupboards,  mysterious  recesses  and 
devious  winding  ways  which  turned  into  dark  nar- 
row passages,  branching  right  and  left  through  the 
whole  breadth  of  the  house.  It  was  along  one  of 
these  that  Innocent  ran  swiftly  on  leaving  the 
kitchen,  till  she  reached  a  closed  door,  where  paus- 
ing, she  listened  a  moment — then,  hearing  no  sound, 
opened  it  and  went  softly  in.  The  room  she  en- 
tered was  filled  with  soft  shadows  of  the  gradually 
falling  dusk,  yet  partially  lit  by  a  golden  flame  of 
the  after-glow  which  shone  through  the  open  lat- 
ticed window  from  the  western  sky.  Close  to  the 
waning  light  sat  the  master  of  the  farm,  still  clad 


28  INNOCENT 

in  his  smock  frock,  with  his  straw  hat  on  the  table 
beside  him  and  his  stick  leaning  against  the  arm 
of  his  chair.  He  was  very  quiet, — so  quiet,  that  a 
late  beam  of  the  sun,  touching  the  rough  silver 
white  of  his  hair,  seemed  almost  obtrusive,  as  sug- 
gesting an  interruption  to  the  moveless  peace  of 
his  attitude.  Innocent  stopped  short,  with  a  tremor 
of  nervous  fear. 

"Dad!"  she  said,  softly. 

He  turned  towards  her. 

"Ay,  lass!     What  is  it?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  came  up  and  knelt  down 
beside  him,  taking  one  of  his  brown  wrinkled  hands 
in  her  own  and  caressing  it.  The  silence  between 
them  was  unbroken  for  quite  two  or  three  minutes; 
then  he  said: 

"Last  load  in  all  safe?" 

"Yes,  Dad!" 

"Not  a  drop  of  rain  to  wet  it,  and  no  hard  words 
to  toughen  it,  eh?" 

"No,  Dad." 

She  gave  the  answer  a  little  hesitatingly.  She  was 
thinking  of  Ned  Landon.  He  caught  the  slight  fal- 
ter in  her  voice  and  looked  at  her  suspiciously. 

"Been  quarrelling  with  Robin?" 

"Dear  Dad,  no!    We're  the  best  of  friends." 

He  loosened  his  hand  from  her  clasp  and  patted 
her  head  with  it. 

"That's  right!  That's  as  it  should  be !  Befriends 
with  Robin,  child!  Be  friends! — be  lovers!" 

She  was  silent.  The  after-glow  warmed  the  tints 
of  her  hair  to  russet-gold  and  turned  to  a  deeper 
pink  the  petals  of  the  roses  in  the  wreath  she  wore. 
He  touched  the  blossoms  and  spoke  with  great  gen- 
tleness. 

"Did  Robin  crown  thee?" 

She  looked  up,  smiling. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     29 

"No,  it's  Larry's  wreath." 

"Larry!  Ay,  poor  Larry!  A  good  lad — but  he 
can  eat  for  two  and  only  work  for  one.  Tis  the  way 
of  men  nowadays!" 

Another  pause  ensued,  and  the  western  gold  of 
the  sky  began  to  fade  into  misty  grey. 

"Dad,"  said  the  girl  then,  in  a  low  tone — "Do 
tell  me — what  did  the  London  doctor  say?" 

He  lifted  his  head  quickly,  and  his  old  eyes  for  a 
moment  flashed  as  though  suddenly  illumined  by  a 
flame  from  within. 

"Say!  What  should  he  say,  lass,  but  that  I  am 
old  and  must  expect  to  die?  It's  natural  enough — 
only  I  haven't  thought  about  it.  It's  just  that — I 
haven't  thought  about  it!" 

"Why  should  you  think  about  it?"  she  asked, 
with  quick  tenderness — "You  will  not  die  yet — not 
for  many  years.  You  are  not  so  very  old.  And  you 
are  strong." 

He  patted  her  head  again. 

"Poor  little  wilding!"  he  said — "If  you  had  your 
way  I  should  live  for  ever,  no  doubt!  But  an'  you 
were  wise  with  modern  wisdom,  you  would  say  I 
had  already  lived  too  long!" 

For  answer,  she  drew  down  his  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"I  do  not  want  any  modern  wisdom,"  she  said — 
"I  am  your  little  girl  and  I  love  you!" 

A  shadow  flitted  across  his  face  and  he  moved 
uneasily.  She  looked  up  at  him. 

"You  will  not  tell  me?" 

"Tell  you  what?" 

"All  that  the  London  doctor  said." 

He  was  silent  for  a  minute's  space — then  he  an- 
swered. 

"Yes,  I  will  tell  you,  but  not  now.  To-night  after 
supper  will  be  time  enough.  And  then " 

"Yes — then?"  she  repeated,  anxiously. 


30  INNOCENT 

"Then  you  shall  know — you  will  have  to  know 
Here  he  broke  off  abruptly.    "Innocent!" 


"Yes,  Dad?" 

"How  old  are  you  now?" 

"Eighteen." 

"Ay,  so  you  are!"  And  he  looked  at  her  search- 
ingly.  "Quite  a  woman!  Time  flies!  You're  old 
enough  to  learn " 

"I  have  always  tried  to  learn,"  she  said — "and  I 
like  studying  things  out  of  books " 

"Ay !  But  there  are  worse  things  in  life  than  ever 
were  written  in  books,"  he  answered,  wearily — 
"things  that  people  hide  away  and  are  ashamed  to 
speak  of!  Ay,  poor  wilding!  Things  that  I've  tried 
to  keep  from  you  as  long  as  possible — but — time 
presses,  and,  I  shall  have  to  speak " 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly.  Her  face  paled  and 
her  eyes  grew  dark  and  wondering. 

"Have  I  done  anything  wrong?"  she  asked. 

"You?  No!  Not  you!  You  are  not  to  blame, 
child!  But  you've  heard  the  law  set  out  in  church 
on  Sundays  that  The  sins  of  the  fathers  shall  be 
visited  on  the  children  even  unto  the  third  and 
fourth  generation.'  You've  heard  that?" 

"Yes,  Dad!" 

"Ay! — and  who  dare  say  the  fourth  generation 
are  to  blame!  Yet,  though  they  are  guiltless,  they 
suffer  most!  No  just  God  ever  made  such  a  law, 
though  they  say  'tis  God  speaking.  7  say  'tis  the 
devil!" 

His  voice  grew  harsh  and  loud,  and  finding  his 
stick  near  his  chair,  he  took  hold  of  it  and  struck  it 
against  the  ground  to  emphasise  his  words. 

"I  say  'tis  the  devil!" 

The  girl  rose  from  her  kneeling  attitude  and  put 
her  arms  gently  round  his  shoulders. 

"There,    Dad!"    she    said    soothingly,— "Don't 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     31 

worry!  Church  and  church  things  seem  to  rub  you 
up  all  the  wrong  way!  Don't  think  about  them! 
Supper  will  be  ready  in  a  little  while  and  after  sup- 
per we'll  have  a  long  talk.  And  then  you'll  tell  me 
what  the  doctor  said." 

His  angry  excitement  subsided  suddenly  and  his 
head  sank  on  his  breast. 

"Ay !  After  supper.  Then — then  I'll  tell  you  what 
the  doctor  said." 

His  speech  faltered.  He  turned  and  looked  out 
on  the  garden,  full  of  luxuriant  blossom,  the  colours 
of  which  were  gradually  merging  into  indistinguish- 
able masses  under  the  darkening  grey  of  the  dusk. 

She  moved  softly  about  the  room,  setting  things 
straight,  and  lighting  two  candles  in  a  pair  of  tall 
brass  candlesticks  which  stood  one  on  either  side  of 
a  carved  oak  press.  The  room  thus  illumined  showed 
itself  to  be  a  roughly-timbered  apartment  in  the 
style  of  the  earliest  Tudor  times,  and  all  the  furni- 
ture in  it  was  of  the  same  period.  The  thick  gate- 
legged table — the  curious  chairs,  picturesque,  but 
uncomfortable — the  two  old  dower  chests — the 
quaint  three-legged  stools  and  upright  settles,  were 
a  collection  that  would  have  been  precious  to  the 
art  dealer  and  curio  hunter,  as  would  the  massive 
eight-day  clock  with  its  grotesquely  painted  face, 
delineating  not  only  the  hours  and  days  but  the 
lunar  months,  and  possessing  a  sonorous  chime 
which  just  now  struck  eight  with  a  boom  as  deep 
as  that  of  a  cathedral  bell.  The  sound  appeared  to 
startle  the  old  farmer  with  a  kind  of  shock,  for  he 
rose  from  his  chair  and  grasped  his  stick,  looking 
about  him  as  though  for  the  moment  uncertain  of 
his  bearings. 

"How  fast  the  hours  go  by!"  he  muttered,  dream- 
ily. "When  we're  young  they  don't  count — but 
when  we're  old  we  know  that  every  hour  brings  us 


32  INNOCENT 

nearer  to  the  end — the  end,  the  end  of  all!  Another 
night  closing  hi — and  the  last  load  cleared  from  the 
field — Innocent ! " 

The  name  broke  from  his  lips  like  a  cry  of  suf- 
fering, and  she  ran  to  him  trembling. 

"Dad,  dear,  what  is  it?" 

He  caught  her  outstretched  hands  and  held  them 
close. 

"Nothing — nothing!"  he  answered,  drawing  his 
breath  quick  and  hard — "Nothing,  lass!  No  pain 
— no- — not  that !  I'm  only  frightened !  Frightened ! 
— think  of  it! — me  frightened  who  never  knew  fear! 
And  I — I  wouldn't  tell  it  to  anyone  but  you — I'm 
afraid  of  what's  coming — of  what's  bound  to  come! 
'Twould  always  have  come,  I  know — but  I  never 
thought  about  it — it  never  seemed  real!  It  never 
seemed  real " 

Here  the  door  opened,  admitting  a  flood  of  cheer- 
ful light  from  the  outside  passage,  and  Robin  Clif- 
ford entered. 

"Hullo,  Uncle!    Supper's  ready!" 

The  old  man's  face  changed  instantly.  Its  worn 
and  scared  expression  smoothed  into  a  smile,  and, 
loosening  his  hold  of  Innocent,  he  straightened  him- 
self and  stood  erect. 

"All  right,  my  lad!    You've  worked  pretty  late!" 

"Yes,  and  we've  not  done  yet.  But  we  shall  fin- 
ish stacking  to-morrow,"  answered  Clifford — "Just 
now  we're  all  tired  and  hungry." 

"Don't  say  you're  thirsty!"  said  the  old  farmer, 
his  smile  broadening.  "How  many  barrels  have  been 
tapped  to-day?" 

"Oh,  well!  You'd  better  ask  Landon,"— and  Clif- 
ford's light  laugh  had  a  touch  of  scorn  in  it, — "he's 
the  man  for  the  beer!  I  hardly  ever  touch  it — 
Innocent  knows  that." 

"More  work's  done  on  water  after  all,"  said  Joce- 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     33 

lyn.  "The  horses  that  draw  for  us  and  the  cattle 
that  make  food  for  us  prove  that.  But  we  think 
we're  a  bit  higher  than  the  beasts,  and  some  of  us 
get  drunk  to  prove  it!  That's  one  of  our  strange 
ways  as  men!  Come  along,  lad!  And  you,  child," 
— here  he  turned  to  Innocent — "run  and  tell  Pris- 
cilla  we're  waiting  in  the  Great  Hall." 

He  seemed  to  have  suddenly  lost  all  feebleness, 
and  walked  with  a  firm  step  into  what  he  called  the 
Great  Hall,  which  was  distinguished  by  this  name 
from  the  lesser  or  entrance  hall  of  the  house.  It 
was  a  nobly  proportioned,  very  lofty  apartment, 
richly  timbered,  the  roof  being  supported  by  huge 
arched  beams  curiously  and  intricately  carved. 
Long  narrow  boards  on  stout  old  trestles  occupied 
the  centre,  and  these  were  spread  with  cloths  of 
coarse  but  spotlessly  clean  linen  and  furnished  with 
antique  plates,  tankards  and  other  vessels  of  pewter 
which  would  have  sold  for  a  far  larger  sum  in  the 
market  than  solid  silver.  A  tall  carved  chair  was 
set  at  the  head  of  the  largest  table,  and  in  this  Far- 
mer Jocelyn  seated  himself.  The  men  now  began 
to  come  in  from  the  fields  in  their  work-a-day 
clothes,  escorted  by  Ned  Landon,  their  only  at- 
tempt at  a  toilet  having  been  a  wash  and  brush 
up  in  the  outhouses;  and  soon  the  hall  presented  a 
scene  of  lively  bustle  and  activity.  Priscilla,  en- 
tering it  from  the  kitchen  with  her  two  assistants, 
brought  in  three  huge  smoking  joints  on  enormous 
pewter  dishes, — then  followed  other  good  things  of 
all  sorts, — vegetables,  puddings,  pasties,  cakes  and 
fruit,  which  Innocent  helped  to  set  out  all  along  the 
boards  in  tempting  array.  It  was  a  generous  sup- 
per fit  for  a  "Harvest  Home" — yet  it  was  only  Far- 
mer Jocelyn's  ordinary  way  of  celebrating  the  end 
of  the  haymaking, — the  real  harvest  home  was  an- 
other and  bigger  festival  yet  to  come.  Robin  Clif- 


34  INNOCENT 

ford  began  to  carve  a  sirloin  of  beef, — Ned  Landon, 
who  was  nearly  opposite  him,  actively  apportioned 
slices  of  roast  pork,  the  delicacy  most  favoured  by 
the  majority,  and  when  all  the  knives  and  forks  were 
going  and  voices  began  to  be  loud  and  tongues  dis- 
cursive, Innocent  slipped  into  a  chair  by  Farmer 
Jocelyn  and  sat  between  him  and  Priscilla.  For  not 
only  the  farm  hands  but  all  the  servants  on  the  place 
were  at  table,  this  haymaking  supper  being  the  an- 
nual order  of  the  household.  The  girl's  small  deli- 
cate head,  with  its  coronal  of  wild  roses,  looked 
strange  and  incongruous  among  the  rough  specimens 
of  manhood  about  her,  and  sometimes  as  the 
laughter  became  boisterous,  or  some  bucolic  witti- 
cism caught  her  ear,  a  faint  flush  coloured  the  pale- 
ness of  her  cheeks  and  a  little  nervous  tremor  ran 
through  her  frame.  She  drew  as  closely  as  she  could 
to  the  old  farmer,  who  sat  rigidly  upright  and  quiet, 
eating  nothing  but  a  morsel  of  bread  with  a  bowl 
of  hot  salted  milk  Priscilla  had  put  before  him.  Beer 
was  served  freely,  and  was  passed  from  man  to  man 
in  leather  "blackjacks"  such  as  were  commonly  used 
in  olden  times,  but  which  are  now  considered  mere 
curiosities.  They  were,  however,  ordinary  wear  at 
Briar  Farm,  and  had  been  so  since  very  early  days. 
The  Great  Hall  was  lighted  by  tall  windows  reach- 
ing almost  to  the  roof  and  traversed  with  shafts 
of  solid  stonework;  the  one  immediately  opposite 
Farmer  Jocelyn's  chair  showed  the  very  last  parting 
glow  of  the  sunset  like  a  dull  red  gleam  on  a  dark 
sea.  For  the  rest,  thick  home-made  candles  of  a 
torch  shape  fixed  into  iron  sconces  round  the  walls 
illumined  the  room,  and  burned  with  unsteady  flare, 
giving  rise  to  curious  lights  and  shadows  as  though 
ghostly  figures  were  passing  to  and  fro,  ruffling  the 
air  with  their  unseen  presences.  Priscilla  Priday, 
her  wizened  yellow  face  just  now  reddened  to  the 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     35 

tint  of  a  winter  apple  by  her  recent  exertions  in  the 
kitchen,  was  not  so  much  engaged  in  eating  her 
supper  as  in  watching  her  master.  Her  beady 
brown  eyes  roved  from  him  to  the  slight  delicate 
girl  beside  him  with  inquisitive  alertness.  She  felt 
and  saw  that  the  old  man's  thoughts  were  far  away, 
and  that  something  of  an  unusual  nature  was 
troubling  his  mind.  Priscilla  was  an  odd-looking 
creature  but  faithful ; — her  attachments  were  strong, 
and  her  dislikes  only  a  shade  more  violent, — and 
just  now  she  entertained  very  uncomplimentary 
sentiments  towards  "them  doctors"  who  had,  as  she 
surmised,  put  her  master  out  of  sorts  with  himself, 
and  caused  anxiety  to  the  "darling  child,"  as  she 
invariably  called  Innocent  when  recommending  her 
to  the  guidance  of  the  Almighty  in  her  daily  and 
nightly  prayers.  Meanwhile  the  noise  at  the  sup- 
per table  grew  louder  and  more  incessant,  and  sun- 
dry deep  potations  of  home-brewed  ale  began  to  do 
their  work.  One  man,  seated  near  Ned  Landon,  was 
holding  forth  in  very  slow  thick  accents  on  the  sub- 
ject of  education: 

"Be  eddicated!"  he  said,  articulating  his  words 
with  difficulty, — "That's  what  I  says,  boys!  Be  ed- 
dicated! Then  everything's  right  for  us!  We  can 
kick  all  the  rich  out  into  the  mud  and  take  their 
goods  and  enjoy  'em  for  ourselves.  Eddication  does 
it!  Makes  us  all  we  wants  to  be, — members  o'  Par- 
li'ment  and  what  not!  I've  only  one  boy, — but  he'll 
be  eddicated  as  his  father  never  was " 

"And  learn  to  despise  his  father!"  said  Robin, 
suddenly,  his  clear  voice  ringing  out  above  the 
other's  husky  loquacity.  "You're  right!  That's  the 
best  way  to  train  a  boy  in  the  way  he  should  go!" 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  Then  came  a  fresh 
murmur  of  voices  and  Ned  Landon's  voice  rose 
above  them. 


36  INNOCENT 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,  Mr.  Clifford,"  he  said — 
"There's  no  reason  why  a  well-educated  lad  should 
despise  his  father." 

"But  he  often  does,"  said  Robin — "reason  or  no 
reason." 

"Well,  you're  educated  yourself,"  retorted  Lan- 
don,  with  a  touch  of  envy, — "You  won  a  scholarship 
at  your  grammar  school,  and  you've  been  to  a  Uni- 
versity." 

"What's  that  done  for  me?"  demanded  Robin, 
carelessly, — "Where  has  it  put  me?  Just  nowhere, 
but  exactly  where  I  might  have  stood  all  the  time. 
I  didn't  learn  farming  at  Oxford!" 

"But  you  didn't  learn  to  despise  your  father 
either,  did  you,  sir?"  queried  one  of  the  farm  hands, 
respectfully. 

"My  father's  dead,"  answered  Robin,  curtly, — 
"and  I  honour  his  memory." 

"So  your  own  argument  goes  to  the  wall!"  said 
Landon.  "Education  has  not  made  you  think  less 
of  him." 

"In  my  case,  no,"  said  Robin, — "but  in  dozens 
of  other  cases  it  works  out  differently.  Besides, 
you've  got  to  decide  what  education  is.  The  man 
who  knows  how  to  plough  a  field  rightly  is  as  use- 
fully educated  as  the  man  who  knows  how  to  read 
a  book,  in  my  opinion." 

"Education,"  interposed  a  strong  voice,  "is  first 
to  learn  one's  place  in  the  world  and  then  know 
how  to  keep  it!" 

All  eyes  turned  towards  the  head  of  the  table.  It 
was  Farmer  Jocelyn  who  spoke,  and  he  went  on 
speaking: 

"What's  called  education  nowadays,"  he  said,  "is 
a  mere  smattering  and  does  no  good.  The  children 
are  taught,  especially  in  small  villages  like  ours, 
by  men  and  women  who  often  know  less  than  the 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     37 

children  themselves.  What  do  you  make  of  Dan- 
vers,  for  example,  boys?" 

A  roar  of  laughter  went  round  the  table. 

"Danvers!"  exclaimed  a  huge  red-faced  fellow  at 
the  other  end  of  the  board, — "Why  he  talks  yer  'ead 
off  about  what  he's  picked  up  here  and  there  like, 
and  when  I  asked  him  to  tell  me  where  my  son  is 
as  went  to  Mexico,  blowed  if  he  didn't  say  it  was  a 
town  somewheres  near  New  York!" 

Another  roar  went  round  the  table.  Farmer 
Jocelyn  smiled  and  held  up  his  hand  to  enjoin  si- 
lence. 

"Mr.  Danvers  is  a  teacher  selected  by  the  Govern- 
ment," he  then  observed,  with  mock  gravity.  "And 
if  he  teaches  us  that  Mexico  is  a  town  near  New 
York,  we  poor  ignorant  farm-folk  are  bound  to  be- 
lieve him!" 

They  all  laughed  again,  and  he  continued: 

"I'm  old  enough,  boys,  to  have  seen  many  changes, 
and  I  tell  you,  all  things  considered,  that  the  worst 
change  is  the  education  business,  so  far  as  the 
strength  and  the  health  of  the  country  goes.  That, 
and  machine  work.  When  I  was  a  youngster,  nearly 
every  field-hand  knew  how  to  mow, — now  we've 
trouble  enough  to  find  an  extra  man  who  can  use  a 
scythe.  And  you  may  put  a  machine  on  the  grass 
as  much  as  you  like,  you'll  never  get  the  quality 
that  you'll  get  with  a  well-curved  blade  and  a  man's 
arm  and  hand  wielding  it.  Longer  work  maybe, 
and  risk  of  rain — but,  taking  the  odds  for  and 
against,  men  are  better  than  machines.  Forty  years 
we've  scythed  the  grass  on  Briar  Farm,  and  haven't 
we  had  the  finest  crops  of  hay  in  the  county?" 

A  chorus  of  gruff  voices  answered  him: 

"Ay,  Mister  Jocelyn!" 

"That's  right!" 

"I  never  'member  more'n  two  wet  seasons  and 


38  INNOCENT 

then  we  got  last  load  in  'tween  showers,"  observed 
one  man,  thoughtfully. 

"There  ain't  never  been  nothin'  wrong  with 
Briar  Farm  hay  crops  anyway — all  the  buyers  knows 
that  for  thirty  mile  round,"  said  another. 

"And  the  wheat  and  the  corn  and  the  barley  and 
the  oats  the  same,"  struck  in  the  old  farmer  again — 
"all  the  seed  sown  by  hand  and  the  harvest  reaped 
by  hand,  and  every  man  and  boy  in  the  village  or 
near  it  has  found  work  enough  to  keep  him  in  his 
native  place,  spring,  summer,  autumn  and  winter, 
isn't  that  so?" 

"Ay,  ay!" 

"Never  a  day  out  o'  work!" 

"Talk  of  unemployed  trouble,"  went  on  Jocelyn, 
"if  the  old  ways  were  kept  up  and  work  done  in  the 
old  fashion,  there'd  be  plenty  for  all  England's  men 
to  do,  and  to  feed  fair  and  hearty!  But  the  idea 
nowadays  is  to  rush  everything  just  to  get  finished 
with  it,  and  then  to  play  cards  or  football,  and  get 
drunk  till  the  legs  don't  know  whether  it's  land  or 
water  they're  standing  on!  It's  the  wrong  way 
about,  boys!  It's  the  wrong  way  about!  You  may 
hurry  and  scurry  along  as  fast  as  you  please,  but  you 
miss  most  good  things  by  the  way ;  and  there's  only 
one  end  to  your  racing — the  grave !  There's  no  such 
haste  to  drop  into  that,  boys!  It'll  wait!  It's  al- 
ways waiting!  And  the  quicker  you  go  the  quicker 
you'll  get  to  it!  Take  time  while  you're  young! 
That  time  for  me  is  past!" 

He  lifted  his  head  and  looked  round  upon  them 
all.  There  was  a  strange  wild  look  in  his  old  eyes, 
— and  a  sudden  sense  of  awe  fell  on  the  rest  of  the 
company.  Farmer  Jocelyn  seemed  all  at  once  re- 
moved from  them  to  a  height  of  dignity  above  his 
ordinary  bearing.  (  Innocent's  rose-crowned  head 
drooped,  and  tears  sprang  involuntarily  to  her  eyes. 


She  tried  to  hide  them,  not  so  well,  however,  but 
that  Priscilla  Friday  saw  them. 

"Now,  lovey  child!"  she  whispered, — "Don't  take 
on!  It's  only  the  doctors  that's  made  him  low  like 
and  feelin'  blue,  and  he  ain't  takin'  sup  or  morsel, 
but  we'll  make  him  have  a  bite  in  his  own  room 
arterwards.  Don't  you  swell  your  pretty  eyes  and 
make  'em  red,  for  that  won't  suit  me  nor  Mr.  Robin 
neither,  come,  come! — that  it  won't!" 

Innocent  put  one  of  her  little  hands  furtively  un- 
der the  board  and  pressed  Priscilla's  rough  knuckles 
tenderly,  but  she  said  nothing.  The  silence  was 
broken  by  one  of  the  oldest  men  present,  who  rose, 
tankard  in  hand. 

"The  time  for  good  farming  is  never  past!"  he 
said,  in  a  hearty  voice — "And  no  one  will  ever  beat 
Farmer  Jocelyn  at  that!  Full  cups,  boys!  And  the 
master's  health !  Long  life  to  him!" 

The  response  was  immediate,  every  man  rising  to 
his  feet.  None  of  them  were  particularly  unsteady 
except  Ned  Landon,  who  nearly  fell  over  the  table  as 
he  got  up,  though  he  managed  to  straighten  himself 
in  time. 

"Farmer  Jocelyn!" 

"To  Briar  Farm  and  the  master!" 

"Health  and  good  luck!" 

These  salutations  were  roared  loudly  round  the 
table,  and  then  the  whole  company  gave  vent  to  a 
hearty  'Hip-hip-hurrah!'  that  roused  echoes  from 
the  vaulted  roof  and  made  its  flaring  lights  trem- 
ble. 

"One  more!"  shouted  Landon,  suddenly,  turning 
his  flushed  face  from  side  to  side  upon  those  im- 
mediately near  him — "Miss  Jocelyn!" 

There  followed  a  deafening  volley  of  cheering, — 
tankards  clinked  together  and  shone  in  the  flicker- 
ing light  and  every  eye  looked  towards  the  girl, 


40  INNOCENT 

who,  colouring  deeply,  shrank  from  the  tumult 
around  her  like  a  leaf  shivering  in  a  storm-wind. 
Robin  glanced  at  her  with  a  half- jealous,  half-anx- 
ious look,  but  her  face  was  turned  away  from  him. 
He  lifted  his  tankard  and,  bowing  towards  her, 
drank  the  contents.  When  the  toast  was  fully 
pledged,  Farmer  Jocelyn  got  up,  amid  much  clap- 
ping of  hands,  stamping  of  feet  and  thumping  on 
the  boards.  He  waited  till  quiet  was  re- 
stored, and  then,  speaking  in  strong  resonant  ac- 
cents, said: 

"Boys,  I  thank  you !  You're  all  boys  to  me,  young 
and  old,  for  you've  worked  on  the  farm  so  long  that 
I  seem  to  know  your  faces  as  well  as  I  know  the 
shape  of  the  land  and  the  trees  on  the  ridges. 
You've  wished  me  health  and  long  life — and  I  take 
it  that  your  wishes  are  honest — but  I've  had  a  long 
life  already  and  mustn't  expect  much  more  of  it. 
However,  the  farm  will  go  on  just  the  same  whether 
I'm  here  or  elsewhere, — and  no  man  that  works  well 
on  it  will  be  turned  away  from  it, — that  I  can  prom- 
ise you!  And  the  advice  I've  always  given  to  you 
I  give  to  you  again, — stick  to  the  land  and  the  work 
of  the  land !  There's  nothing  finer  in  the  world  than 
the  fresh  air  and  the  scent  of  the  good  brown  earth 
that  gives  you  the  reward  of  your  labour,  always 
providing  it  is  labour  and  not  'scamp'  service. 
When  I'm  gone  you'll  perhaps  remember  what  I 
say, — and  think  it  not  so  badly  said  either.  I  thank 
you  for  your  good  wishes  and" — here  he  hesitated — 
"my  little  girl  here  thanks  you  too.  Next  tune  you 
make  the  hay — if  I'm  not  with  you — I  ask  you  to 
be  as  merry  as  you  are  to-night  and  to  drink  to  my 
memory!  For  whenever  one  master  of  Briar  Farm 
has  gone  there's  always  been  another  in  his  place! 
— and  there  always  will  be!"  He  paused, — then  lift- 
ing a  full  tankard  which  had  been  put  beside  him, 
he  drank  a  few  drops  of  its  contents — "God  bless 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT  41 

you  all!  May  you  long  have  the  will  to  work  and 
the  health  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  honest  labour!" 

There  was  another  outburst  of  noisy  cheering,  fol- 
lowed by  a  new  kind  of  clamour. 

"A  song!" 

"A  song!" 

"Who'll  begin?" 

"Where's  Steevy?" 

"Little  Steevy!" 

"Steevy!  Wheer  be  ye  got  to?"  roared  one  old 
fellow  with  very  white  hair  and  a  very  red  face — 
"ye're  not  so  small  as  ye  can  hide  in  yer  mother's 
thimble!" 

A  young  giant  of  a  man  stood  up  in  response  to 
this  adjuration,  blushing  and  smiling  bashfully. 

"Here  I  be!" 

"Sing  away,  lad,  sing  away!" 

"Wet  yer  pipe,  and  whistle!" 

"Tune  up,  my  blackbird!" 

Steevy,  thus  adjured,  straightened  himself  to  his 
full  stature  of  over  six  feet  and  drank  off  a  cupful 
of  ale.  Then  he  began  in  a  remarkably  fine  and 
mellow  tenor: 

*"  Would  you  choose  a  wife 
For  a  happy  life, 

Leave  the  town  and  the  country  take; 
Where  Susan  and  Doll, 
And  Jenny  and  Moll, 
Follow  Harry  and  John, 
While  harvest  goes  on, 

And  merrily,  merrily  rake! 

"The  lass  give  me  here, 
As  brown  as  my  beer, 

That  knows  how  to  govern  a  farmj 
That  can  milk  a  cow, 
Or  farrow  a  sow, 
Make  butter  and  cheese, 
And  gather  green  peas, 

And  guard  the  poultry  from  harm. 
*  Old  Song.     1740. 


42  INNOCENT 

-"This,  this  is  the  girl, 
Worth  rubies  and  pearl, 

The  wife  that  a  home  will  make! 
We  farmers  need 
No  quality  breed, 
But  a  woman  that's  won 
While  harvest  goes  on, 
And  we  merrily,  merrily  rake! 

A  dozen  or  more  stentorian  voices  joined  in  the 
refrain : 

"A  woman  that's  won 
While  harvest  goes  on, 

And  we  merrily,  merrily  rake." 

"Bravo!" 

"Good  for  you,  Steevy!" 

"First-class!" 

"Here's  to  you,  my  lad!" 

The  shouting,  laughter  and  applause  continued 
for  many  minutes,  then  came  more  singing  of  songs 
from  various  rivals  to  the  tuneful  Steevy.  And 
presently  all  joined  together  in  a  boisterous  chorus 
which  ran  thus: 

"A  glass  is  good  and  a  lass  is  good, 

And  a  pipe  is  good  in  cold  weather, 
The  world  is  good  and  the  people  are  good, 
And  we're  all  good  fellows  together!" 

In  the  middle  of  this  performance  Farmer  Joce- 
lyn  rose  from  his  place  and  left  the  hall,  Innocent 
accompanying  him.  Once  he  looked  back  on  the 
gay  scene  presented  to  him — the  disordered  supper- 
table,  the  easy  lounging  attitudes  of  the  well-fed 
men,  the  flare  of  the  lights  which  cast  a  ruddy  glow 
on  old  and  young  faces  and  sparkled  over  the  bur- 
nished pewter, — then  with  a  strange  yearning  pain 
in  his  eyes  he  turned  slowly  away,  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  the  girl  beside  him,  and  went, — leaving  the 
merry-makers  to  themselves. 


CHAPTER   III 

RETURNING  to  the  room  where  he  had  sat  alone 
before  supper,  he  sank  heavily  into  the  armchair  he 
had  previously  occupied.  The  window  was  still 
open,  and  the  scent  of  roses  stole  in  with  every 
breath  of  air, — a  few  stars  sparkled  in  the  sky,  and 
a  faint  line  of  silver  in  the  east  showed  where  the 
moon  would  shortly  rise.  He  looked  out  in  dreamy 
silence,  and  for  some  minutes  seemed  too  much  ab- 
sorbed in  thought  to  notice  the  presence  of  Inno- 
cent, who  had  seated  herself  at  a  small  table  near 
him,  on  which  she  had  set  a  lit  candle,  and  was 
quietly  sewing.  She  had  forgotten  that  she  still 
wore  the  wreath  of  wild  roses, — the  fragile  flow- 
ers were  drooping  and  dying  in  her  hair,  and  as  she 
bent  over  her  work  and  the  candlelight  illumined 
her  delicate  profile,  there  was  something  almost 
sculptural  in  the  shape  of  the  leaves  as  they  en- 
circled her  brow,  making  her  look  like  a  young 
Greek  nymph  or  goddess  brought  to  life  out  of  the 
poetic  dreams  of  the  elder  world.  She  was  troubled 
and  anxious,  but  she  tried  not  to  let  this  seem  ap- 
parent. She  knew  from  her  life's  experience  of  his 
ways  and  whims  that  it  was  best  to  wait  till  the 
old  man  chose  to  speak,  rather  than  urge  him  into 
talk  before  he  was  ready  or  willing.  She  glanced 
up  from  her  sewing  now  and  again  and  saw  that 
he  looked  very  pale  and  worn,  and  she  felt  that  he 
suffered.  Her  tender  young  heart  ached  with  long- 
ing to  comfort  him,  yet  she  knew  not  what  she 
should  say.  So  she  sat  quiet,  as  full  of  loving 

43 


44  INNOCENT 

thoughts  as  a  Madonna  lily  may  be  full  of  the  dew 
of  Heaven,  yet  mute  as  the  angelic  blossom  itself. 
Presently  he  moved  restlessly,  and  turning  in  his 
chair  looked  at  her  intently.  The  fixity  of  his  gaze 
drew  her  like  a  magnet  from  her  work  and  she  put 
down  her  sewing. 

"Do  you  want  anything,  Dad?" 

He  rose,  and  began  to  fumble  with  the  buttons  of 
his  smock. 

"Ay — just  help  me  to  get  this  off.  The  working 
day  is  over, — the  working  clothes  can  go!" 

She  was  at  his  side  instantly  and  with  her  light 
deft  fingers  soon  disembarrassed  him  of  the  homely 
garment.  When  it  was  taken  off  a  noticeable  trans- 
formation was  effected  in  his  appearance.  Clad  in 
plain  dark  homespun,  which  was  fashioned  into  a 
suit  somewhat  resembling  the  doublet  and  hose  of 
olden  times,  his  tall  thin  figure  had  a  distinctly 
aristocratic  look  and  bearing  which  was  lacking 
when  clothed  in  the  labourer's  garb.  Old  as  he  was, 
there  were  traces  of  intellect  and  even  beauty  in 
his  features, — his  head,  on  which  the  thin  white 
hair  shone  like  spun  silver,  was  proudly  set  on  his 
shoulders  hi  that  unmistakable  line  which  indicates 
the  power  and  the  will  to  command;  and  as  he 
unconsciously  drew  himself  upright  he  looked  more 
like  some  old  hero  of  a  hundred  battles  than  a  far- 
mer whose  chief  pride  was  the  excellence  of  his 
crops  and  the  prosperity  of  his  farm  managed  by 
hand  work  only.  For  despite  the  jeers  of  his  neigh- 
bours, who  were  never  tired  of  remonstrating  with 
him  for  not  "going  with  the  times,"  Jocelyn  had  one 
fixed  rule  of  farming,  and  this  was  that  no  modern 
machinery  should  be  used  on  his  lands.  He  was 
the  best  employer  of  labour  for  many  and  many  a 
mile  round,  and  the  most  generous  as  well  as  the 
most  exact  paymaster,  and  though  people  asserted 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     45 

that  there  was  no  reasonable  explanation  for  it, 
nevertheless  it  annually  happened  that  the  hand- 
sown,  hand-reaped  crops  of  Briar  Farm  were  finer 
and  richer  in  grain  and  quality,  and  of  much  better 
value  than  the  machine-sown,  machine-reaped  crops 
of  any  other  farm  in  the  county  or  for  that  matter 
in  the  three  counties  adjoining.  He  stood  now  for 
a  minute  or  two  watching  Innocent  as  she  looked 
carefully  over  his  smock  frock  to  see  if  there  were 
any  buttons  missing  or  anything  to  be  done  re- 
quiring the  services  of  her  quick  needle  and  thread, 
—then  as  she  folded  it  and  put  it  aside  on  a  chair 
he  said  with  a  thrill  of  compassion  in  his  voice: 

"Poor  little  child,  thou  hast  eaten  no  supper!  I 
saw  thee  playing  with  the  bread  and  touching  no 
morsel.  Art  not  well?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  tried  to  smile,  but  tears 
came  into  her  eyes  despite  her  efforts  to  keep  them 
back. 

"Dear  Dad,  I  am  only  anxious,"  she  murmured, 
tremulously.  "You,  too,  have  had  nothing.  Shall 
I  fetch  you  a  glass  of  the  old  wine?  It  will  do  you 
good." 

He  still  bent  his  brows  thoughtfully  upon  her. 

"Presently — presently — not  now,"  he  answered. 
"Come  and  sit  by  me  at  the  window  and  I'll  tell 
you — I'll  tell  you  what  you  must  know.  But  see 
you,  child,  if  you  are  going  to  cry  or  fret,  you  will 
be  no  help  to  me  and  I'll  just  hold  my  peace!" 

She  drew  a  quick  breath,  and  her  face  paled. 

"I  will  not  cry,"  she  said, — "I  will  not  fret.  I 
promise  you,  Dad!" 

She  came  close  up  to  him  as  she  spoke.  He  took 
her  gently  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"That's  a  brave  girl!"  And  holding  her  by  the 
hand  he  drew  her  towards  the  open  window — "Look 
out  there!  See  how  the  stars  shine!  Always  the 


46  INNOCENT 

same,  no  matter  what  happens  to  us  poor  folk  down 
here, — they  twinkle  as  merrily  over  our  graves  as 
over  our  gardens, — and  yet  if  we're  to  believe  what 
we're  taught  nowadays,  they're  all  worlds  more  or 
less  like  our  own,  full  of  living  creatures  that  suffer 
and  die  like  ourselves.  It's  a  queer  plan  of  the  Al- 
mighty, to  keep  on  making  wonderful  and  beautiful 
things  just  to  destroy  them!  There  seems  no  sense 
in  it!"' 

He  sat  down  again  in  his  chair,  and  she,  obeying 
his  gesture,  brought  a  low  stool  to  his  feet  and  set- 
tled herself  upon  it,  leaning  against  his  knee.  Her 
face  was  upturned  to  his  and  the  flickering  light  of 
the  tall  candles  quivering  over  it  showed  the  wistful 
tender  watchfulness  of  its  expression — a  look  which 
seemed  to  trouble  him,  for  he  avoided  her  eyes. 

"You  want  to  know  what  the  London  doctor 
said,"  he  began.  "Well,  child,  you'll  not  be  any  the 
better  for  knowing,  but  it's  as  I  thought.  I've  got 
my  death-warrant.  Slowton  was  not  sure  about  me, 
— but  this  man,  ill  as  he  is  himself,  has  had  too 
much  experience  to  make  mistakes.  There's  no  cure 
for  me.  I  may  last  out  another  twelve  months — 
perhaps  not  so  long — certainly  not  longer." 

He  saw  her  cheeks  grow  white  with  the  ashy 
whiteness  of  a  sudden  shock.  Her  eyes  dilated  with 
pain  and  fear,  and  a  quick  sigh  escaped  her,  then 
she  set  her  lips  hard. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said,  adding  with  stronger 
emphasis — "I  won't  believe  it!" 

He  patted  the  small  hand  that  rested  on  his  knee. 

"You  won't?  Poor  little  girl,  you  must  believe 
it! — and  more  than  that,  you  must  be  prepared  for 
it.  Even  a  year's  none  too  much  for  all  that  has  to 
be  done, — 'twill  almost  take  me  that  time  to  look 
the  thing  square  in  the  face  and  give  up  the  farm 
for  good." — Here  he  paused  with  a  kind  of  horror 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     47 

at  his  own  words — "Give  up  the  farm! — My  God! 
And  for  ever!  How  strange  it  seems!" 

The  tumult  in  her  mind  found  sudden  speech. 

"Dad,  dear!  Dad!  It  isn't  true!  Don't  think 
it!  Don't  mind  what  the  doctor  says.  He's  wrong 
— I'm  sure  he's  wrong!  You'll  live  for  many  and 
many  a  happy  year  yet — oh  yes,  Dad,  you  will!  I'm 
sure  of  it!  You  won't  die,  darling  Dad!  Why 
should  you?" 

She  broke  off  with  a  half-smothered  sob. 

"Why  should  I?"  he  said,  with  a  perplexed  frown; 
"Ah! — that's  more  than  I  can  tell  you!  There's 
neither  rhyme  nor  reason  in  it  that  I  can  see.  But 
it's  the  rule  of  life  that  it  should  end  in  death.  For 
some  the  end  is  swift — for  some  it's  slow — some 
know  when  it's  coming — some  don't, — the  last  are 
the  happiest.  I've  been  told,  you  see, — and  it's  no 
use  my  fighting  against  the  fact, — a  year  at  the 
most,  perhaps  less,  is  the  longest  term  I  have  of 
Briar  Farm.  Your  eyes  are  wet — you  promised  you 
wouldn't  cry." 

She  furtively  dashed  away  the  drops  that  were 
shining  on  her  lashes.  Then  she  forced  a  faint 
quivering  smile. 

"I'm  not  crying,  Dad,"  she  said.  "There's  noth- 
ing to  cry  for,"  and  she  fondled  his  hand  in  her  own 
— "The  doctors  are  wrong.  You're  only  a  little 
weak  and  run  down — you'll  be  all  right  with  rest 
and  care — and — and  you  shan't  die!  You  shan't 
die!  I  won't  let  you." 

He  drew  a  long  breath  and  passed  his  hand  across 
his  forehead  as  though  he  were  puzzled  or  in  pain. 

"That's  foolish  talk,"  he  said,  with  some  harsh- 
ness; "You've  got  trouble  to  meet,  and  you  must 
meet  it.  I'm  bound  to  show  you  trouble — but  I 
can  show  you  a  way  out  of  it  as  well." 

He  paused  a  moment, — a  light  wind  outside  the 


48  INNOCENT 

lattice  swayed  a  branch  of  roses  to  and  fro,  shak- 
ing out  their  perfume  as  from  a  swung  censer. 

"The  first  thing  I  must  tell  you,"  he  went  on, 
"is  about  yourself.  It's  time  you  should  know  who 
you  are." 

She  looked  up  at  him  startled. 

"Who  I  am?"  she  repeated, — then  as  she  saw 
the  stern  expression  on  his  face  a  sudden  sense  of 
fear  ran  through  her  nerves  like  the  chill  of  an  icy 
wind  and  she  waited  dumbly  for  his  next  word.  He 
gripped  her  hand  hard  in  his  own. 

"Now  hear  me  out,  child!"  he  said — "Let  me 
speak  on  without  interruption,  or  I  shall  never  get 
through  the  tale.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  told  you 
before,  but  I've  put  it  off  and  put  it  off,  thinking 
'twould  be  time  enough  when  you  and  Robin  were 
wed.  You  and  Robin — you  and  Robin! — your  mar- 
riage bells  have  rung  through  my  brain  many  and 
many  a  night  for  the  past  two  years  and  never  a  bit 
nearer  are  you  to  the  end  of  your  wooing,  such  fan- 
ciful children  as  you  both  are!  And  you're  so  long 
about  it  and  I've  so  short  a  time  before  me  that 
I've  made  up  my  mind  it's  best  to  let  you  have  all 
the  truth  about  yourself  before  anything  happens 
to  me.  All  the  truth  about  yourself — as  far  as  I 
know  it." 

He  paused  again.  She  was  perfectly  silent.  She 
trembled  a  little — wondering  what  she  was  going  to 
hear.  It  must  be  something  dreadful,  she  thought, 
— something  for  which  she  was  unprepared, — some- 
thing that  might,  perhaps,  like  a  sudden  change  in 
the  currents  of  the  air,  create  darkness  where  there 
had  been  sunshine,  storm  instead  of  calm.  His  grip 
on  her  hand  was  strong  enough  to  hurt  her,  but  she 
was  not  conscious  of  it.  She  only  wished  he  would 
tell  her  the  worst  at  once  and  quickly.  The  worst, 
— for  she  instinctively  felt  there  was  no  best. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     49 

"It  was  eighteen  years  ago  this  very  haymaking 
time,"  he  went  on,  with  a  dreamy  retrospective  air 
as  though  he  were  talking  to  himself, — "The  last 
load  had  been  taken  in.  Supper  was  over.  The 
men  had  gone  home, — Priscilla  was  clearing  the 
great  hall,  when  there  came  on  a  sudden  storm — 
just  a  flash  of  lightning — I  can  see  it  now,  striking 
a  blue  fork  across  the  windows — a  clap  of  thunder— 
and  then  a  regular  downpour  of  rain.  Heavy  rain, 
too, — buckets-full — for  it  washed  the  yard  out  and 
almost  swamped  the  garden.  I  didn't  think  much 
about  it, — the  hay  was  hauled  in  dry,  and  that  was 
all  my  concern.  I  stood  under  a  shed  in  the  yard 
and  watched  the  rain  falling  in  straight  sheets  out 
of  a  sky  black  as  pitch — I  could  scarcely  see  my 
own  hand  if  I  stretched  it  out  before  me,  the  night 
was  so  dark.  All  at  once  I  heard  the  quick  gallop 
of  a  horse's  hoofs  some  way  off, — then  the  sound 
seemed  to  die  away, — but  presently  I  heard  the  hoofs 
coming  at  a  slow  steady  pace  down  our  muddy  old 
by-road — no  one  can  gallop  that,  in  any  weather. 
And  almost  before  I  knew  how  it  came  there,  the 
horse  was  standing  at  the  farmyard  gate,  with  a 
man  in  the  saddle  carrying  a  bundle  in  front  of  him. 
He  was  the  handsomest  fellow  I  ever  saw,  and  when 
he  dismounted  and  came  towards  me,  and  took  off 
his  cap  in  the  pouring  rain  and  smiled  at  me,  I  was 
fairly  taken  with  his  looks.  I  thought  he  must  be 
something  of  a  king  or  other  great  personage  by  his 
very  manner.  'Will  you  do  me  a  kindness?'  he  said, 
as  gently  as  you  please.  'This  is  a  farm,  I  believe. 
I  want  to  leave  my  little  child  here  in  safe  keeping 
for  a  night.  She  is  such  a  baby, — I  cannot  carry 
her  any  further  through  this  storm.'  And  he  put 
aside  the  wrappings  of  the  bundle  he  carried  and 
showed  me  a  small  pale  infant  asleep.  'She's 


50  INNOCENT 

motherless/  he  added,  'and  I'm  taking  her  to  my 
relatives.  But  I  have  to  ride  some  distance  from 
here  on  very  urgent  business,  and  if  you  will  look 
after  her  for  to-night  I'll  call  for  her  to-morrow. 
Poor  little  innocent!  She's  hungry  and  fretful.  I 
haven't  anything  to  give  her  and  the  storm  looks 
like  continuing.  Will  you  let  her  stay  with  you?' 
'Certainly!'  said  I,  without  thinking  a  bit  further 
about  it.  'Leave  her  here  by  all  means.  We'll  see 
she  gets  all  she  wants.'  He  gave  me  the  child  at 
once  and  said  in  a  very  soft  voice:  'You  are  most 
generous! — "verily  I  have  not  found  so  great  a  faith, 
no  not  in  Israel!"  You're  sure  you  don't  mind?' 
'Not  at  all,'  I  answered  him, — 'You'll  come  back  for 
her  to-morrow,  of  course.'  He  smiled  and  said — 
'Oh  yes,  of  course!  To-morrow!  I'm  really  very 
much  obliged  to  you!'  Then  he  seemed  to  think 
for  a  moment  and  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  but 
I  stopped  him — 'No,  sir,'  I  said,  'excuse  me,  but  I 
don't  want  any  pay  for  giving  a  babe  a  night's 
shelter.'  He  looked  at  me  very  straight  with  his 
big  clear  hazel  eyes,  and  then  shook  hands  with  me. 
'You're  an  honest  fellow,'  he  said, — and  he  stooped 
and  kissed  the  child  he  had  put  into  my  arms.  'I'm 
extremely  sorry  to  trouble  you,  but  the  storm  is  too 
much  for  this  helpless  little  creature.'  'You  yourself 
are  wet  through/  I  interrupted.  'That  doesn't  mat- 
ter/ he  answered, — 'for  me  nothing  matters.  Thank 
you  a  thousand  times!  Good-night!'  The  rain 
was  coming  down  faster  than  ever  and  I  stepped 
back  into  the  shed,  covering  the  child  up  so  that  the 
drifting  wet  should  not  beat  upon  it.  He  came  after 
me  and  kissed  it  again,  saying  'Good-night,  poor 
little  innocent,  good-night!'  three  or  four  times. 
Then  he  went  off  quickly  and  sprang  into  his  sad- 
dle and  in  the  blur  of  rain  I  saw  horse  and  man  turn 
away.  He  waved  his  hand  once  and  his  handsome 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     51 

pale  face  gleamed  upon  me  like  that  of  a  ghost  in 
the  storm.  'Till  to-morrow!'  he  called,  and  was 
gone.  I  took  the  child  into  the  house  and  called 
Priscilla.  She  was  always  a  rough  one  as  you  know, 
even  in  her  younger  days,  and  she  at  once  laid  her 
tongue  to  with  a  will  and  as  far  as  she  dared  called 
me  a  fool  for  my  pains.  And  so  I  was,  for  when  I 
came  to  think  of  it  the  man  was  a  stranger  to  me, 
and  I  had  never  asked  him  his  name.  It  was  just 
his  handsome  face  and  the  way  he  had  with  him 
that  had  thrown  me  off  my  guard  as  it  were;  so  I 
stood  and  looked  silly  enough,  I  suppose,  while  Pris- 
cilla fussed  about  with  the  baby,  for  it  had  wak- 
ened and  was  crying.  Well!" — and  Jocelyn  heaved 
a  short  sigh — "That's  about  all!  We  never  saw  the 
man  again,  and  the  child  was  never  claimed;  but 
every  six  months  I  received  a  couple  of  bank-notes 
in  an  envelope  bearing  a  different  postmark  each 
time,  with  the  words:  Tor  Innocent'  written  in- 
side  " 

She  uttered  a  quick,  almost  terrified  exclamation, 
and  drew  her  hand  away  from  his. 

"Every  six  months  for  a  steady  twelve  years  on 
end,"  he  went  on, — "then  the  money  suddenly 
stopped.  Now  you  understand,  don't  you?  You 
were  the  babe  that  was  left  with  me  that  stormy 
night;  and  you've  been  with  me  ever  since.  But 
you're  not  my  child.  I  don't  know  whose  child 
you  are!" 

He  stopped,  looking  at  her. 

She  had  risen  from  her  seat  beside  him  and  was 
standing  up.  She  was  trembling  violently,  and  her 
face  seemed  changed  from  the  round  and  mobile 
softness  of  youth  to  the  worn  pallor  and  thinness  of 
age.  Her  eyes  were  luminous  with  a  hard  and  fe- 
verish brilliancy. 

"You — you  don't  know  whose  child  I  am!"  she 


52  INNOCENT 

repeated, — "I  am  not  yours — and  you  don't  know — 
you  don't  know  who  I  belong  to!  Oh,  it  hurts  me! 
— it  hurts  me,  Dad!  I  can't  realise  it!  I  thought 
you  were  my  own  dear  father! — and  I  loved  you! — 
oh,  how  much  I  loved  you! — yet  you  have  deceived 
me  all  along!" 

"I  haven't  deceived  you,"  he  answered,  impa- 
tiently. "I've  done  all  for  the  best — I  meant  to  tell 
you  when  you  married  Robin " 

A  flush  of  indignation  flew  over  her  cheeks. 

"Marry  Robin!"  she  exclaimed — "How  could  I 
marry  Robin?  I'm  nothing!  I'm  nobody!  I  have 
not  even  a  name!" 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  an  un- 
controllable sob  broke  from  her. 

"Not  even  a  name!"  she  murmured — "Not  even 
a  name!" 

With  a  sudden  impulsive  movement  she  knelt 
down  in  front  of  him  like  a  child  about  to  say  its 
prayers. 

"Oh,  help  me,  Dad!"  she  said,  piteously — "Com- 
fort me!  Say  something — anything!  I  feel  so  lost 
— so  astray!  All  my  life  seems  gone! — I  can't  re- 
alise it!  Yes,  I  know!  You  have  been  very  kind, 
— all  kindness,  just  as  if  I  had  been  your  own  little 
girl.  Oh,  why  did  you  tell  me  I  was  your  own? — I 
was  so  proud  to  be  your  daughter — and  now — it's 
so  hard — so  hard!  Only  a  few  moments  ago  I  was 
a  happy  girl  with  a  loving  father  as  I  thought — now 
I  know  I'm  only  a  poor  nameless  creature, — de- 
serted by  my  parents  and  left  on  your  hands.  Oh, 
Dad  dear!  I've  given  you  years  of  trouble! — I  hope 
I've  been  good  to  you !  It's  not  my  fault  that  I  am 
what  I  am!" 

He  laid  his  wrinkled  hand  on  her  bowed  head. 

"Dear  child,  of  course  it's  not  your  fault!  That's 
what  I've  said  all  along.  You're  innocent,  like  your 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     53 

name, — and  you've  been  a  blessing  to  me  all  your 
days, — the  farm  has  been  brighter  for  your  living  on 
it, — so  you've  no  cause  to  worry  me  or  yourself 
about  what's  past  long  ago  and  can't  be  helped.  No 
one  knows  your  story  but  Priscilla, — no  one  need 
ever  know." 

She  sprang  up  from  her  kneeling  attitude. 

"Priscilla!"  she  echoed — "She  knew,  and  she 
never  said  a  word!" 

"If  she  had,  she'd  have  got  the  sack,"  answered 
Jocelyn,  bluntly.  "You  were  brought  up  always  as 
my  child." 

He  broke  off,  startled  by  the  tragic  intensity  of 
her  look. 

"I  want  to  know  how  that  was,"  she  said,  slowly. 
"You  told  me  my  mother  died  when  I  was  born." 

He  avoided  her  eyes. 

"Well,  that  was  true,  or  so  I  suppose,"  he  said. 
"The  man  who  brought  you  said  you  were  mother- 
less. But  I — I  have  never  married." 

"Then  how  could  you  tell  Robin — and  everyone 
else  about  here  that  I  was  your  daughter?" 

He  grew  suddenly  angry. 

"Child,  don't  stare  at  me  like  that!"  he  exclaimed, 
with  all  an  old  man's  petulance.  "It  doesn't  mat- 
ter what  I  said — I  had  to  let  the  neighbours  think 
you  were  mine " 

A  light  flashed  in  upon  her,  and  she  gave  vent  to 
a  shuddering  cry. 

"Dad!    Oh,  Dad!" 

Gripping  both  arms  of  his  chair  he  raised  himself 
into  an  upright  posture. 

"What  now?"  he  demanded,  almost  fiercely — 
"What  trouble  are  you  going  to  make  of  it?" 

"Oh,  if  it  were  only  trouble,"  she  exclaimed,  for- 
lornly. "It's  far  worse!  You've  branded  me  with 
shame!  Oh,  I  understand  now!  I  understand  at 


54  INNOCENT 

last  why  the  girls  about  here  never  make  friends 
with  me!  I  understand  why  Robin  seems  to  pity 
me  so  much!  Oh,  how  shall  I  ever  look  people  in 
the  face  again!" 

His  fuzzy  brows  met  in  a  heavy  frown. 

"Little  fool!"  he  said,  roughly, — "What  shame 
are  you  talking  of?  I  see  no  shame  in  laying  claim 
to  a  child  of  my  own,  even  though  the  claim  has  no 
reality.  Look  at  the  thing  squarely!  Here  comes  a 
strange  man  with  a  baby  and  leaves  it  on  my  hands. 
You  know  what  a  scandalous,  gossiping  little  place 
this  is, — and  it  was  better  to  say  at  once  the  baby 
was  mine  than  leave  it  to  the  neighbours  to  say  the 
same  thing  and  that  I  wouldn't  acknowledge  it.  Not 
a  soul  about  here  would  have  believed  the  true  story 
if  I  had  told  it  to  them.  I've  done  everything  for 
the  best — I  know  I  have.  And  there'll  never  be  a 
word  said  if  you  marry  Robin." 

Her  face  had  grown  very  white.  She  put  up  her 
hand  to  her  head  and  her  fingers  touched  the  faded 
wreath  of  wild  roses.  She  drew  it  off  and  let  it  drop 
to  the  ground. 

"I  shall  never  marry  Robin!"  she  said,  with  quiet 
firmness — "And  I  will  not  be  considered  your  ille- 
gitimate child  any  longer.  It's  cruel  of  you  to  have 
made  me  live  on  a  lie! — yes,  cruel! — though  you've 
been  so  kind  in  other  things.  You  don't  know  who 
my  parents  were — you've  no  right  to  think  they  were 
not  honest!" 

He  stared  at  her  amazed.  For  the  first  time  in 
eighteen  years  he  began  to  see  the  folly  of  what  he 
had  thought  his  own  special  wisdom.  This  girl,  with 
her  pale  sad  face  and  steadfast  eyes,  confronted 
him  with  the  calm  reproachful  air  of  an  accusing 
angel. 

"What  right  have  you?"  she  went  on.  "The 
man  who  brought  me  to  you, — poor  wretched  me! — 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     55 

if  he  was  my  father,  may  have  been  good  and  true. 
He  said  I  was  motherless;  and  he,  or  someone  else, 
sent  you  money  for  me  till  I  was  twelve.  That  did 
not  look  as  if  I  was  forgotten.  Now  you  say  the 
money  has  stopped — well! — my  father  may  be 
dead."  Her  lips  quivered  and  a  few  tears  rolled 
down  her  cheeks.  "But  there  is  nothing  in  all  this 
that  should  make  you  think  me  basely  born, — noth- 
ing that  should  have  persuaded  you  to  put  shame 
upon  me!" 

He  was  taken  aback  for  a  minute  by  her  words 
and  attitude — then  he  burst  out  angrily: 

"It's  the  old  story,  I  see!  Do  a  good  action  and 
it  turns  out  a  curse!  Basely  born!  Of  course  you 
are  basely  born,  if  that's  the  way  you  put  it!  What 
man  alive  would  leave  his  own  lawful  child  at  a 
strange  farm  off  the  high-road  and  never  claim  it 
again?  You're  a  fool,  I  tell  you!  This  man  who 
brought  you  to  me  was  by  his  look  and  bearing  some 
fine  gentleman  or  other  who  had  just  the  one  idea 
in  his  head — to  get  rid  of  an  encumbrance.  And  so 
he  got  rid  of  you " 

"Don't  go  over  the  whole  thing  again!"  she  in- 
terrupted, with  weary  patience — "I  was  an  encum- 
brance to  him — I've  been  an  encumbrance  to  you. 
I'm  sorry!  But  in  no  case  had  you  the  right  to  set 
a  stigma  on  me  which  perhaps  does  not  exist.  That 
was  wrong!" 

She  paused  a  moment,  then  went  on  slowly: 

"I've  been  a  burden  on  you  for  six  years  now, — 
it's  six  years,  you  say,  since  the  money  stopped.  I 
wish  I  could  do  something  in  return  for  what  I've 
cost  you  all  those  six  years, — I've  tried  to  be  useful." 

The  pathos  in  her  voice  touched  him  to  the  quick. 

"Innocent!"  he  exclaimed,  and  held  out  his  arms. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  very  pitiful  smile  and 
shook  her  head. 


56  INNOCENT 

"No!  I  can't  do  that!  Not  just  yet!  You  see, 
it's  all  so  unexpected — things  have  changed  alto- 
gether in  a  moment.  I  can't  feel  quite  the  same — 
my  heart  seems  so  sore  and  cold." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  again. 

"Ah,  well,  it  is  as  I  thought!"  he  said,  irritably. 
"You're  more  concerned  about  yourself  than  about 
me.  A  few  minutes  ago  you  only  cared  to  know 
what  the  doctors  thought  of  my  illness,  but  now  it's 
nothing  to  you  that  I  shall  be  dead  in  a  year.  Your 
mind  is  set  on  your  own  trouble,  or  what  you  choose 
to  consider  a  trouble." 

She  heard  him  like  one  in  a  dream.  It  seemed 
very  strange  to  her  that  he  should  have  dealt  her  a 
blow  and  yet  reproach  her  for  feeling  the  force  of  it. 

"I  am  sorry!"  she  said,  patiently.  "But  this  is 
the  first  time  I  have  known  real  trouble — you  forget 
that! — and  you  must  forgive  me  if  I  am  stupid 
about  it.  And  if  the  doctors  really  believe  you  are 
to  die  in  a  year  I  wish  I  could  take  your  place,  Dad ! 
— I  would  rather  be  dead  than  live  shamed.  And 
there's  nothing  left  for  me  now, — not  even  a 
name " 

Here  she  paused  and  seemed  to  reflect. 

"Why  am  I  called  Innocent?" 

"Why?  Because  that's  the  name  that  was  writ- 
ten on  every  slip  of  paper  that  came  with  each  six 
months'  money,"  he  answered,  testily.  "That's  the 
only  reason  I  know." 

"Was  I  baptised  by  that  name?"  she  asked. 

He  moved  uneasily. 

"You  were  never  baptised." 

"Never  baptised ! "  She  echoed  the  words  despair- 
ingly,— and  then  was  silent  for  a  minute's  space. 
"Could  you  not  have  done  that  much  for  me?"  she 
asked,  plaintively,  at  last — "Would  it  have  been 
impossible?" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     57 

He  was  vaguely  ashamed.  Her  eyes,  pure  as  a 
young  child's,  were  fixed  upon  him  in  appealing 
sorrow.  He  began  to  feel  that  he  had  done  her  a 
grievous  wrong,  though  he  had  never  entirely  re- 
alised it  till  now.  He  answered  her  with  some  hesi- 
tation and  an  effort  at  excuse. 

"Not  impossible — no, — maybe  I  could  have  bap- 
tised you  myself  if  I  had  thought  about  it.  'Tis  but 
a  sprinkle  of  water  and  'In  the  Name  of  the  Father, 
Son,  and  Holy  Ghost/  But  somehow  I  never  wor- 
ried my  head — for  as  long  as  you  were  a  baby  I 
looked  for  the  man  who  brought  you  day  after  day, 
and  in  my  own  mind  left  all  that  sort  of  business 
for  him  to  attend  to — and  when  he  didn't  come  and 
you  grew  older,  it  fairly  slipped  my  remembrance 
altogether.  I'm  not  fond  of  the  Church  or  its  ways, 
— and  you've  done  as  well  without  baptism  as  with 
it,  surely.  Innocent  is  a  good  name  for  you,  and 
fits  your  case.  For  you're  innocent  of  the  faults  of 
your  parents  whatever  they  were,  and  you're  inno- 
cent of  my  blunders.  You're  free  to  make  your  own 
life  pleasant  if  you'll  only  put  a  bright  face  on  it 
and  make  the  best  of  an  awkward  business." 

She  was  silent,  standing  before  him  like  a  little 
statuesque  figure  of  desolation. 

"As  for  the  tale  I  told  the  neighbours,"  he  went 
on — "it  was  the  best  thing  I  could  think  of.  If  I 
had  said  you  were  a  child  I  had  taken  in  to  adopt, 
not  one  of  them  would  have  believed  me;  'twas  a 
case  of  telling  one  lie  or  t'other,  the  real  truth  being 
so  queer  and  out  of  the  common,  so  I  chose  the 
easiest.  And  it's  been  all  right  with  you,  my  girl, 
whichever  way  you  put  it.  There  may  be  a  few 
stuck-up  young  huzzies  in  the  village  that  aren't 
friendly  to  you,  but  you  may  take  it  that  it's  more 
out  of  jealousy  of  Robin's  liking  for  you  than  any- 
thing else.  Robin  loves  you — you  know  he  does; 


58  INNOCENT 

and  all  you've  got  to  do  is  to  make  him  happy. 
Marry  him,  for  the  farm  will  be  his  when  I'm  dead, 
and  it'll  give  me  a  bit  of  comfort  to  feel  that  you're 
settled  down  with  him  in  the  old  home.  For  then 
I  know  it'll  go  on  just  the  same — just  the  same " 

His  words  trailed  off  brokenly.  His  head  sank  on 
his  chest,  and  some  slow  tears  made  their  difficult 
way  out  of  his  eyes  and  dropped  on  his  silver  beard. 

She  watched  him  with  a  certain  grave  compas- 
sion, but  she  did  not  at  once  go,  as  she  would  usually 
have  done,  to  put  her  arms  round  his  neck  and 
console  him.  She  seemed  to  herself  removed  miles 
away  from  him  and  from  everything  she  had  ever 
known.  Just  then  there  was  a  noise  of  rough  but 
cheery  voices  outside  shouting  "good-night"  to  each 
other,  and  she  said  in  a  quiet  tone: 

"The  men  are  away  now.  Is  there  anything  you 
want  before  I  go  to  bed?" 

With  a  sudden  access  of  energy,  which  contrasted 
strangely  with  his  former  feebleness,  he  rose  and 
confronted  her. 

"No,  there's  nothing  I  want!"  he  said,  in  ve- 
hement tones — "Nothing  but  peace  and  quietness! 
I've  told  you  your  story,  and  you  take  it  ill.  But 
recollect,  girl,  that  if  you  consider  any  shame  has 
been  put  on  you,  I've  put  equal  shame  on  myself 
for  your  sake — I,  Hugo  Jocelyn, — against  whom 
never  a  word  has  been  said  but  this, — which  is  a  lie 
— that  my  child,  mine! — was  born  out  of  wedlock! 
I  suffered  this  against  myself  solely  for  your  sake — 
I,  who  never  wronged  a  woman  in  my  life! — I,  who 
never  loved  but  one  woman,  who  died  before  I  had 
the  chance  to  marry  her! — and  I  say  and  I  swear 
I  have  sacrificed  something  of  my  name  and  repu- 
tation to  you!  So  that  you  need  not  make  trouble 
because  you  also  share  in  the  sacrifice.  Robin  thinks 
you're  my  child,  and  therefore  his  cousin, — and  he 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     59 

counts  nothing  against  you,  for  he  knows  that  what 
the  world  would  count  against  you  must  be  my  fault 
and  would  be  my  fault,  if  the  lie  I  started  against 
myself  was  true.  Marry  Robin,  I  tell  you! — and  if 
you  care  to  make  me  happy,  marry  him  before  I  die. 
Then  you're  safe  out  of  all  harm's  way.  If  you  don't 
marry  him " 

Her  breath  came  and  went  quickly — she  folded 
her  hands  across  her  bosom,  trying  to  still  the  loud 
and  rapid  beating  of  her  heart,  but  her  eyes  were 
very  bright  and  steadfast. 

"Yes?    What  then?"  she  asked,  calmly. 

"Then  you  must  take  the  consequences,"  he 
said.  "The  farm  and  all  I  have  is  left  to  Robin, 
— he's  my  dead  sister's  son  and  my  nearest  living 
kin " 

"I  know  that,"  she  said,  simply,  "and  I'm  glad 
he  has  everything.  It's  right  that  it  should  be  so. 
I  shall  not  be  in  his  way.  You  may  be  quite  sure 
of  that.  But  I  shall  not  marry  him." 

"You'll  not  marry  him?"  he  repeated,  and  seemed 
about  to  give  vent  to  a  torrent  of  invective  when 
she  extended  her  hands  clasped  together  appeal- 
ingly. 

"Dad,  don't  be  angry! — it  only  hurts  you  and  it 
does  no  good !  Just  before  supper  you  reminded  me 
of  what  they  say  in  Church  that  'the  sins  of  the 
fathers  should  be  visited  on  the  children,  even  unto 
the  third  and  fourth  generation.'  I  will  not  visit 
the  sin  of  my  father  and  mother  on  anyone.  If  you 
will  give  me  a  little  time  I  shall  be  able  to  under- 
stand everything  more  clearly,  and  perhaps  bear  it 
better.  I  want  to  be  quite  by  myself.  I  must  try 
to  see  myself  as  I  am, — unbaptised,  nameless,  for- 
saken! And  if  there  is  anything  to  be  done  with 
this  wretched  little  self  of  mine,  it  is  I  that  must  do 
it.  With  God's  help!"  She  sighed,  and  her  lips 


60  INNOCENT 

moved  softly  again  in  the  last  words,  "With  God's 
help!" 

He  said  nothing,  and  she  waited  a  moment  as  if 
expecting  him  to  speak.  Then  she  moved  to  the 
table  where  she  had  been  sitting  and  folded  up  her 
needlework. 

"Shall  I  get  you  some  wine,  Dad?"  she  asked  pres- 
ently in  a  quiet  voice. 

"No!"  he  replied,  curtly — "Priscilla  can  get  it." 

"Then  good-night!" 

Still  standing  erect  he  turned  his  head  and 
looked  at  her. 

"Are  you  going?"  he  said.  "Without  your  usual 
kiss? — your  usual  tenderness?  Why  should  you 
change  to  me?  Your  own  father — if  he  was  your 
father — deserted  you, — and  I  have  been  a  father  to 
you  in  his  place,  wronging  my  own  honourable  name 
for  your  sake;  am  I  to  blame  for  this?  Be  reason- 
able! The  laws  of  man  are  one  thing  and  the  laws 
of  Godxare  another, — and  we  have  to  make  the  best 
we  can  of  ourselves  between  the  two.  There's  many 
a  piece  of  wicked  injustice  in  the  world,  but  nothing 
more  wicked  than  to  set  shame  or  blame  on  a  child 
that's  born  without  permit  of  law  or  blessing  of 
priest.  For  it's  not  the  child's  fault, — it's  brought 
into  the  world  without  its  own  consent, — and  yet  the 
world  fastens  a  slur  upon  it!  That's  downright  bm- 
tal  and  senseless! — for  if  there  is  any  blame  at- 
tached to  the  matter  it  should  be  fastened  on  the 
parents,  and  not  on  the  child.  And  that's  what  I 
thought  when  you  were  left  on  my  hands — I  took 
the  blame  of  you  on  myself,  and  I  was  careful  that 
you  should  be  treated  with  every  kindness  and  re- 
spect— mind  you  that!  Respect!  There's  not  a 
man  on  the  place  that  doesn't  doff  his  cap  to  you; 
and  you've  been  as  my  own  daughter  always.  You 
can't  deny  it!  And  more  than  that" — here  his  strong 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     61 

voice  faltered — "I've  loved  you! — yes — I've  loved 
you,  little  Innocent " 

She  looked  up  in  his  face  and  saw  it  quivering 
with  suppressed  emotion,  and  the  strange  cold  sense 
of  aloofness  that  had  numbed  her  senses  suddenly 
gave  way  like  snow  melting  in  the  spring.  In  a  mo- 
ment she  was  in  his  arms,  weeping  out  her  pent-up 
tears  on  his  breast,  and  he,  stroking  her  soft  hair, 
soothed  her  with  every  tender  and  gentle  word  he 
could  think  of. 

"There,  there!"  he  murmured,  fondly.  "Thou 
must  look  at  it  in  this  way,  dear  child!  That  if 
God  deprived  thee  of  one  father  he  gave  thee  an- 
other in  his  place!  Make  the  best  of  that  gift  be- 
fore it  be  taken  from  thee!" 


CHAPTER   IV 

THERE  are  still  a  few  old  houses  left  in  rural  Eng- 
land which  are  as  yet  happily  unmolested  by  the 
destroying  ravages  of  modern  improvement,  and 
Briar  Farm  was  one  of  these.  History  and  romance 
alike  had  their  share  in  its  annals,  and  its  title-deeds 
went  back  to  the  autumnal  days  of  1581,  when  the 
Duke  of  Anjou  came  over  from  France  to  England 
with  a  royal  train  of  noblemen  and  gentlemen  in 
the  hope  to  espouse  the  greatest  monarch  of  all 
time,  "the  most  renowned  and  victorious"  Queen 
Elizabeth,  whose  reign  has  clearly  demonstrated  to 
the  world  how  much  more  ably  a  clever  woman 
can  rule  a  country  than  a  clever  man,  if  she  is  left 
to  her  own  instinctive  wisdom  and  prescience.  No 
king  has  ever  been  wiser  or  more  diplomatic  than 
Elizabeth,  and  no  king  has  left  a  more  brilliant  re- 
nown. As  the  coldest  of  male  historians  is  bound  to 
admit,  "her  singular  powers  of  government  were 
founded  equally  on  her  temper  and  on  her  capacity. 
Endowed  with  a  great  command  over  herself,  she 
soon  obtained  an  uncontrolled  ascendant  over  her 
people.  Few  sovereigns  of  England  succeeded  to 
the  throne  under  more  difficult  circumstances,  and 
none  ever  conducted  the  government  with  such  uni- 
form success  and  felicity."  Had  Elizabeth  been 
weak,  the  Duke  of  Anjou  might  have  realised  his 
ambitious  dream,  with  the  unhappiest  results  for 
England;  and  that  he  fortunately  failed  was  en- 
tirely due  to  her  sagacity  and  her  quick  perception 
of  his  irresolute  and  feeble  character.  In  the  sump- 

62 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     63 

tuous  train  attendant  upon  this  "Petit  Grenouille," 
as  he  styled  himself  in  one  of  his  babyish  epistles  to 
England's  sovereign  majesty,  there  was  a  certain 
knight  more  inclined  to  the  study  of  letters  than 
to  the  breaking  of  lances, — the  Sieur  Amadis  de 
Jocelin,  who  being  much  about  the  court  in  the  wake 
of  his  somewhat  capricious  and  hot-tempered  mas- 
ter, came,  unfortunately  for  his  own  peace  of  mind, 
into  occasional  personal  contact  with  one  of  the  most 
bewitching  young  women  of  her  time,  the  Lady 
Penelope  Devereux,  afterwards  Lady  Rich,  she  in 
whom,  according  to  a  contemporary  writer,  "lodged 
all  attractive  graces  and  beauty,  wit  and  sweetness 
of  behaviour  which  might  render  her  the  mistress 
of  all  eyes  and  hearts."  Surrounded  as  she  was  by 
many  suitors,  his  passion  was  hopeless  from  the 
first,  and  that  he  found  it  so  was  evident  from  the 
fact  that  he  suddenly  disappeared  from  the  court 
and  from  his  master's  retinue,  and  was  never  heard 
of  by  the  great  world  again.  Yet  he  was  not  far 
away.  He  had  not  the  resolution  to  leave  England, 
the  land  which  enshrined  the  lady  of  his  love, — 
and  he  had  lost  all  inclination  to  return  to  France. 
He  therefore  retired  into  the  depths  of  the  sweet 
English  country,  among  the  then  unspoilt  forests 
and  woodlands,  and  there  happening  to  find  a  small 
manor-house  for  immediate  sale,  surrounded  by  a 
considerable  quantity  of  land,  he  purchased  it  for 
the  ready  cash  he  had  about  him  and  settled  down 
in  it  for  the  remainder  of  his  life.  Little  by  little, 
such  social  ambitions  as  he  had  ever  possessed  left 
him,  and  with  every  passing  year  he  grew  more  and 
more  attached  to  the  simplicity  and  seclusion  of  his 
surroundings.  He  had  leisure  for  the  indulgence  of 
his  delight  in  books,  and  he  was  able  to  give  the  rein 
to  his  passion  for  poetry,  though  it  is  nowhere  re- 
corded that  he  ever  published  the  numerous  essays, 


64  INNOCENT 

sonnets  and  rhymed  pieces  which,  written  in  the 
picturesque  caligraphy  of  the  period,  and  roughly 
bound  by  himself  in  sheepskin,  occupied  a  couple 
of  shelves  in  his  library.  He  entered  with  anima- 
tion and  interest  into  the  pleasures  of  farming  and 
other  agricultural  pursuits,  and  by-and-bye  as  tune 
went  on  and  the  former  idol  of  his  dreams  descended 
from  her  fair  estate  of  virtue  and  scandalised  the 
world  by  her  liaison  with  Lord  Mount  joy,  he  ap- 
pears to  have  gradually  resigned  the  illusions  of  his 
first  love,  for  he  married  a  simple  village  girl,  re- 
markable, so  it  was  said,  for  her  beauty,  but  more 
so  for  her  skill  in  making  butter  and  cheese.  She 
could  neither  read  nor  write,  however,  and  the  tradi- 
tions concerning  the  Sieur  Amadis  relate  that  he 
took  a  singular  pleasure  in  teaching  her  these  ac- 
complishments, as  well  as  in  training  her  to  sing 
and  to  accompany  herself  upon  the  lute  in  a  very- 
pretty  manner.  She  made  him  an  excellent  wife, 
and  gave  him  no  less  than  six  children,  three  boys 
and  three  girls,  all  of  whom  were  brought  up  at 
home  under  the  supervision  of  their  father  and 
mother,  and  encouraged  to  excel  in  country  pursuits 
and  to  understand  the  art  of  profitable  farming.  It 
was  in  their  days  that  Briar  Farm  entered  upon  its 
long  career  of  prosperity,  which  still  continued. 
The  Sieur  Amadis  died  in  his  seventieth  year,  and 
by  his  own  wish,  expressed  in  his  "Last  Will  and 
Testament,"  was  buried  in  a  sequestered  spot  on  his 
own  lands,  under  a  stone  slab  which  he  had  himself 
fashioned,  carving  upon  it  his  recumbent  figure  in 
the  costume  of  a  knight,  a  cross  upon  his  breast  and 
a  broken  sword  at  his  side.  His  wife,  though  sev- 
eral years  younger  than  himself,  only  lived  a  twelve- 
month after  him  and  was  interred  by  his  side.  Their 
resting-place  was  now  walled  off,  planted  thickly 
with  flowers,  and  held  sacred  by  every  succeeding 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     65 

heir  to  the  farm  as  the  burial-place  of  the  first 
Jocelyns.  Steadily  and  in  order,  the  families  spring- 
ing from  the  parent  tree  of  the  French  knight 
Amadis  had  occupied  Briar  Farm  in  unbroken  suc- 
cession, and  through  three  centuries  the  property 
had  been  kept  intact,  none  of  its  possessions  being 
dispersed  and  none  of  its  land  being  sold.  The 
house  was  practically  in  the  same  sound  condition 
as  when  the  Sieur  Amadis  fitted  and  furnished  it 
for  his  own  occupation, — there  was  the  same  pewter, 
the  same  solid  furniture,  the  same  fine  tapestry,  pre- 
served by  the  careful  mending  of  many  hundreds  of 
needles  worked  by  hands  long  ago  mingled  with  the 
dust  of  the  grave,  and,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to 
those  who  are  only  acquainted  with  the  flimsy  man- 
ufactures of  to-day,  the  same  stout  hand-wrought 
linen,  which,  mended  and  replenished  each  year, 
lasted  so  long  because  never  washed  by  modern 
methods,  but  always  by  hand  in  clear  cold  running 
water.  There  were  presses  full  of  this  linen,  deli- 
ciously  scented  with  lavender,  and  there  were  also 
the  spinning-wheels  that  had  spun  the  flax  and  the 
hand-looms  on  which  the  threads  had  been  woven. 
These  were  witnesses  to  the  days  when  wromen,  in- 
stead of  gadding  abroad,  were  happy  to  be  at  home 
— when  the  winter  evenings  seemed  short  and  bright 
because  as  they  sat  spinning  by  the  blazing  log  fire 
they  were  cheerful  in  their  occupation,  singing 
songs  and  telling  stories  and  having  so  much  to  do 
that  there  was  no  time  to  indulge  in  the  morbid 
analysis  of  life  and  the  things  of  life  which  in  our 
present  shiftless  day  perplex  and  confuse  idle  and 
unhealthy  brains. 

And  now  after  more  than  three  centuries,  the  di- 
rect male  line  of  Amadis  de  Jocelin  had  culminated 
in  Hugo,  commonly  called  Farmer  Jocelyn,  who,  on 
account  of  some  secret  love  disappointment,  the  de- 


66  INNOCENT 

tails  of  which  he  had  never  told  to  anyone,  had  re- 
mained unmarried.  Till  the  appearance  on  the 
scene  of  the  child,  Innocent,  who  was  by  the  village 
folk  accepted  and  believed  to  be  the  illegitimate 
offspring  of  this  ill-starred  love,  it  was  tacitly  un- 
derstood that  Robin  Clifford,  his  nephew,  and  the 
only  son  of  his  twin  sister,  would  be  the  heir  to 
Briar  Farm;  but  when  it  was  seen  how  much  the 
old  man  seemed  to  cling  to  Innocent,  and  to  rely 
upon  her  ever  tender  care  of  him,  the  question  arose 
as  to  whether  there  might  not  be  an  heiress  after 
all,  instead  of  an  heir.  And  the  rustic  wiseacres 
gossiped,  as  is  their  wont,  watching  with  no  small 
degree  of  interest  the  turn  of  events  which  had 
lately  taken  place  in  the  frank  and  open  admiration 
and  affection  displayed  by  Robin  for  his  illegiti- 
mate cousin,  as  it  was  thought  she  was,  and  as 
Farmer  Jocelyn  had  tacitly  allowed  it  to  be  under- 
stood. If  the  two  young  people  married,  everybody 
agreed  it  would  be  the  right  thing,  and  the  best  pos- 
sible outlook  for  the  continued  prosperity  of  Briar 
Farm.  For  after  all,  it  was  the  farm  that  had  to  be 
chiefly  considered,  so  they  opined, — the  farm  was 
an  historic  and  valuable  property  as  well  as  an  ex- 
cellent paying  concern.  The  great  point  to  be 
attained  was  that  it  should  go  on  as  it  had  always 
gone  on  from  the  days  of  the  Sieur  Amadis,— and 
that  it  should  be  kept  in  the  possession  of  the  same 
family.  This  at  any  rate  was  known  to  be  the 
cherished  wish  of  old  Hugo  Jocelyn,  though  he  was 
not  given  to  any  very  free  expression  of  his  feelings. 
He  knew  that  his  neighbours  envied  him,  watched 
him  and  commented  on  his  actions, — he  knew  also 
that  the  tale  he  had  told  them  concerning  Innocent 
had  to  a  great  extent  whispered  away  his  own  good 
name  and  fastened  a  social  slur  upon  the  girl, — yet 
he  could  not,  according  to  his  own  views,  have  seen 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     67 

any  other  way  out  of  the  difficulty.  The  human 
world  is  always  wicked- tongued ;  and  it  is  common 
knowledge  that  any  man  or  woman  introducing  an 
"adopted"  child  into  a  family  is  at  once  accused, 
whether  he  or  she  be  conscious  of  the  accusation  or 
not,  of  passing  off  his  own  bastard  under  the  "adop- 
tion" pretext.  Hugo  Jocelyn  was  fairly  certain  that 
none  of  his  neighbours  would  credit  the  romantic 
episode  of  the  man  on  horseback  arriving  in  a  storm 
and  leaving  a  nameless  child  on  his  hands.  The 
story  was  quite  true, — but  truth  is  always  precisely 
what  people  refuse  to  believe. 

The  night  on  which  Innocent  had  learned  her  own 
history  for  the  first  time  was  a  night  of  consummate 
beauty  in  the  natural  world.  When  all  the  gates 
and  doors  of  the  farm  and  its  outbuildings  had  been 
bolted  and  barred  for  the  night,  the  moon,  almost 
full,  rose  in  a  cloudless  heaven  and  shed  pearl-white 
showers  of  radiance  all  over  the  newly-mown  and 
clean-swept  fields,  outlining  the  points  of  the  old 
house  gables  and  touching  with  luminous  silver  the 
roses  that  clambered  up  the  walls.  One  wide  lat- 
ticed window  was  open  to  the  full  inflowing  of  the 
scented  air,  and  within  its  embrasure  sat  a  lonely 
little  figure  in  a  loose  white  garment  with  hair  tum- 
bling carelessly  over  its  shoulders  and  eyes  that  were 
wet  with  tears.  The  clanging  chime  of  the  old  clock 
below  stairs  had  struck  eleven  some  ten  minutes 
since,  and  after  the  echo  of  its  bell  had  died  away 
there  had  followed  a  heavy  and  intense  silence.  The 
window  looked  not  upon  the  garden,  but  out  upon 
the  fields  and  a  suggestive  line  of  dark  foliage  edg- 
ing them  softly  in  the  distance, — away  down  there, 
under  a  huge  myriad-branched  oak,  slept  the  old 
knight  Sieur  Amadis  de  Jocelin  and  his  English 
rustic  wife,  the  founders  of  the  Briar  Farm  family. 
The  little  figure  in  the  dark  embrasure  of  the  win- 


68  INNOCENT 

dow  clasped  its  white  hands  and  turned  its  weeping 
eyes  towards  that  ancient  burial-place,  and  the 
moon-rays  shone  upon  its  fair  face  with  a  silvery 
glimmer,  giving  it  an  almost  spectral  pallor. 

"Why  was  I  ever  born?"  sighed  a  trembling  voice 
—"Oh,  dear  God!  Why  did  you  let  it  be?" 

The  vacant  air,  the  vacant  fields  looked  blankly 
irresponsive.  They  had  no  sympathy  to  give, — they 
never  have.  To  great  Mother  Nature  it  is  not  im- 
portant how  or  why  a  child  is  born,  though  she 
occasionally  decides  that  it  shall  be  of  the  greatest 
importance  how  and  why  the  child  shall  live.  What 
does  it  matter  to  the  forces  of  creative  life  whether 
it  is  brought  into  the  world  "basely,"  as  the  phrase 
goes,  or  honourably?  The  child  exists, — it  is  a  hu- 
man entity — a  being  full  of  potential  good  or  evil, 
— and  after  a  certain  period  of  growth  it  stands 
alone,  and  its  parents  have  less  to  do  with  it  than 
they  imagine.  It  makes  its  own  circumstances  and 
shapes  its  own  career,  and  in  many  cases  the  less  it 
is  interfered  with  the  better.  But  Innocent  could 
not  reason  out  her  position  in  any  cold-blooded  or 
logical  way.  She  was  too  young  and  too  unhappy. 
Everything  that  she  had  taken  pride  in  was  swept 
from  her  at  once.  Only  that  very  morning  she  had 
made  one  of  her  many  pilgrimages  down  to  the  ven- 
erable oak  beneath  whose  trailing  branches  the 
Sieur  Amadis  de  Jocelin  lay,  covered  by  the  broad 
stone  slab  on  which  he  had  carved  his  own  likeness, 
and  she  had  put  a  little  knot  of  the  "Glory"  roses 
between  his  mailed  hands  which  were  folded  over 
the  cross  on  his  breast,  and  she  had  said  to  the  silent 
effigy: 

"It  is  the  last  day  of  the  haymaking,  Sieur  Ama- 
dis! You  would  be  glad  to  see  the  big  crop  going 
in  if  you  were  here!" 

She  was  accustomed  to  talk  to  the  old  stone 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     69 

knight  in  this  fanciful  way, — she  had  done  so  all 
her  life  ever  since  she  could  remember.  She  had 
taken  an  intense  pride  in  thinking  of  him  as  her 
ancestor;  she  had  been  glad  to  trace  her  lineage  back 
over  three  centuries  to  the  love-lorn  French  noble 
who  had  come  to  England  in  the  train  of  the  Due 
d'Anjou — and  now — now  she  knew  she  had  no  con- 
nection at  all  with  him, — that  she  was  an  unnamed, 
unbaptised  nobody — an  unclaimed  waif  of  human- 
ity whom  no  one  wanted!  No  one  in  all  the  world 
— except  Robin!  He  wanted  her; — but  perhaps 
when  he  knew  her  true  history  his  love  would  grow 
cold.  She  wondered  whether  it  would  be  so.  If  it 
were  she  would  not  mind  very  much.  Indeed  it 
would  be  best,  for  she  felt  she  could  never  marry 
him. 

"No,  not  if  I  loved  him  with  all  my  heart!"  she 
said,  passionately — "Not  without  a  name! — not  till 
I  have  made  a  name  for  myself,  if  only  that  were 
possible!" 

She  left  the  window  and  walked  restlessly  about 
her  room,  a  room  that  she  loved  very  greatly  be- 
cause it  had  been  the  study  of  the  Sieur  Amadis. 
It  was  a  wonderful  room,  oak-panelled  from  floor 
to  ceiling,  and  there  was  no  doubt  about  its  history, 
— the  Sieur  Amadis  himself  had  taken  care  of.  that. 
For  on  every  panel  he  had  carved  with  his  own  hand 
a  verse,  a  prayer,  or  an  aphorism,  so  that  the  walls 
were  a  kind  of  open  notebook  inscribed  with  his  own 
personal  memoranda.  Over  the  wide  chimney  his 
coat-of-arms  was  painted,  the  colours  having  faded 
into  tender  hues  like  those  of  autumn  leaves,  and 
the  motto  underneath  was  "Mon  cceur  me  soutien." 
Then  followed  the  inscription: 

"Amadis  de  Jocelin, 

Knight  of  France, 
Who  here  seekynge  Forgetfulness  did  here  fynde  Peace." 


70  INNOCENT 

Every  night  of  her  life  since  she  could  read  Inno- 
cent had  stood  in  front  of  these  armorial  bearings 
in  her  little  white  night-gown  and  had  conned  over 
these  words.  She  had  taken  the  memory  and  tra- 
dition of  Amadis  to  her  heart  and  soul.  He  was  her 
ancestor, — hers,  she  had  always  said; — she  had  al- 
most learned  her  letters  from  the  inscriptions  he 
had  carved,  and  through  these  she  could  read  old 
English  and  a  considerable  amount  of  old  French 
besides.  When  she  was  about  twelve  years  old  she 
and  Robin  Clifford,  playing  about  together  in  this 
room,  happened  to  knock  against  one  panel  that 
gave  forth  a  hollow  reverberant  sound,  and  moved 
by  curiosity  they  tried  whether  they  could  open  it. 
After  some  abortive  efforts  Robin's  fingers  closed  by 
chance  on  a  hidden  spring,  which  being  thus  pressed 
caused  the  panel  to  fly  open,  disclosing  a  narrow  se- 
cret stair.  Full  of  burning  excitement  the  two  chil- 
dren ran  up  it,  and  to  their  delight  found  themselves 
in  a  small  square  musty  chamber  in  which  were  two 
enormous  old  dower-chests,  locked.  Their  locks 
were  no  bar  to  the  agility  of  Robin,  who,  fetching 
a  hammer,  forced  the  old  hasps  asunder  and  threw 
back  the  lids.  The  coffers  were  full  of  books  and 
manuscripts  written  on  vellum,  a  veritable  six- 
teenth-century treasure-trove.  They  hastened  to 
report  the  find  to  Farmer  Jocelyn,  who,  though 
never  greatly  taken  with  books  or  anything  concern- 
ing them,  was  sufficiently  interested  to  go  with  the 
eager  children  and  look  at  the  discovery  they  had 
made.  But  as  he  could  make  nothing  of  either 
books  or  manuscripts  himself,  he  gave  over  the 
whole  collection  to  Innocent,  saying  that  as  they 
were  found  in  her  part  of  the  house  she  might  keep 
them.  No  one — not  even  Robin — knew  how  much 
she  had  loved  and  studied  these  old  books,  or  how 
patiently  she  had  spelt  out  the  manuscripts;  and 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     71 

no  one  could  have  guessed  what  a  wide  knowledge 
of  literature  she  had  gained  or  what  fine  taste  she 
had  developed  from  her  silent  communications  with 
the  parted  spirit  of  the  Sieur  Amadis  and  his 
poetical  remains.  She  had  even  arranged  her 
room  as  she  thought  he  might  have  liked  it,  in  se- 
vere yet  perfect  taste.  It  was  now  her  study  as  it 
had  been  his, — the  heavy  oak  table  had  a  great 
pewter  inkstand  upon  it  and  a  few  loose  sheets  of 
paper  with  two  or  three  quill  pens  ready  to  hand, — 
some  quaint  old  vellum-bound  volumes  and  a  brown 
earthenware  bowl  full  of  "Glory"  roses  were  set  just 
where  they  could  catch  the  morning  sunshine 
through  the  lattice  window.  One  side  of  the  room 
was  lined  with  loaded  bookshelves,  and  at  its  fur- 
thest end  a  wide  arch  of  roughly  hewn  oak  dis- 
closed a  smaller  apartment  where  she  slept.  Here 
there  was  a  quaint  little  four-poster  bedstead,  hung 
with  quite  priceless  Jacobean  tapestry,  and  a  still 
more  rare  and  beautiful  work  of  art — an  early 
Italian  mirror,  full  length  and  framed  in  silver,  a 
curio  worth  many  hundreds  of  pounds.  In  this  mir- 
ror Innocent  had  surveyed  herself  with  more  or  less 
disfavour  since  her  infancy.  It  was  a  mirror  that 
had  always  been  there — a  mirror  in  which  the  wife 
of  the  Sieur  Amadis  must  have  often  gazed  upon 
her  own  reflection,  and  hi  which,  after  her,  all  the 
wives  and  daughters  of  the  succeeding  Jocelyns  had 
seen  their  charms  presented  to  their  own  admira- 
tion. The  two  old  dower-chests  which  had  been 
found  in  the  upper  chamber  were  placed  on  either 
side  of  the  mirror,  and  held  all  the  simple  home- 
made garments  which  were  Innocent's  only  wear.  A 
special  joy  of  hers  lay  in  the  fact  that  she  knew  the 
management  of  the  secret  sliding  panel,  and  that 
she  could  at  her  own  pleasure  slip  up  the  mysterious 
stairway  with  a  book  and  be  thus  removed  from  all 


72  INNOCENT 

the  household  in  a  solitude  which  to  her  was  ideal. 
To-night  as  she  wandered  up  and  down  her  room 
like  a  little  distraught  ghost,  all  the  happy  and  ro- 
mantic associations  of  the  home  she  had  loved  and 
cherished  for  so  many  years  seemed  cut  down  like  a 
sheaf  of  fair  blossoms  by  a  careless  reaper, — a  sor- 
did and  miserable  taint  was  on  her  life,  and  she 
shuddered  with  mingled  fear  and  grief  as  she  realised 
that  she  had  not  even  the  simple  privilege  of  ordi- 
nary baptism.  She  was  a  nameless  waif,  dependent 
on  the  charity  of  Farmer  Jocelyn.  True,  the  old 
man  had  grown  to  love  her  and  she  had  loved  him 
— ah! — let  the  many  tender  prayers  offered  up  for 
him  in  this  very  room  bear  witness  before  the  throne 
of  God  to  her  devotion  to  her  "father"  as  she  had 
thought  him!  And  now — if  what  the  doctors  said 
was  true — if  he  was  soon  to  die — what  would  be- 
come of  her?  She  wrung  her  little  hands  in  uncon- 
scious agony. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  she  murmured,  sobbingly — "I 
have  no  claim  on  him,  or  on  anyone  in  the  world! 
Dear  God,  what  shall  I  do?" 

Her  restless  walk  up  and  down  took  her  into  her 
sleeping-chamber,  and  there  she  lit  a  candle  and 
looked  at  herself  in  the  old  Italian  mirror.  A  little 
woe-begone  creature  gazed  sorrowfully  back  at  her 
from  its  shining  surface,  with  brimming  eyes  and 
quivering  lips,  and  hair  all  tossed  loosely  away  from 
a  small  sad  face  as  pale  as  a  watery  moon,  and  she 
drew  back  from  her  own  reflection  with  a  gesture  of 
repugnance. 

"I  am  no  use  to  anybody  in  any  way,"  she  said, 
despairingly — "I  am  not  even  good-looking.  And 
Robin — poor  foolish  Robin! — called  me  'lovely'  this 
afternoon!  He  has  no  eyes!" 

Then  a  sudden  thought  flew  across  her  brain  of 
Ned  Landon.  The  tall  powerful-looking  brute  loved 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     73 

her,  she  knew.  Every  look  of  his  told  her  that  his 
very  soul  pursued  her  with  a  reckless  and  relentless 
passion.  She  hated  hihi, — she  trembled  even  now 
as  she  pictured  his  dark  face  and  burning  eyes; — he 
had  annoyed  and  worried  her  in  a  thousand  ways — 
ways  that  were  not  sufficiently  open  in  their  offence 
to  be  openly  complained  of,  though  had  Farmer 
Jocelyn's  state  of  health  given  her  less  cause  for 
anxiety  she  might  have  said  something  to  him  which 
would  perhaps  have  opened  his  eyes  to  the  situa- 
tion. But  not  now, — not  now  could  she  appeal  to 
anyone  for  protection  from  amorous  insult.  For 
who  was  she — what  was  she  that  she  should  resent 
it?  She  was  nothing! — a  mere  stray  child  whose 
parents  nobody  knew, — without  any  lawful  guardian 
to  uphold  her  rights  or  assert  her  position.  No  won- 
der old  Jocelyn  had  called  her  "wilding" — she  was 
indeed  a  "wilding"  or  weed, — growing  up  unwanted 
in  the  garden  of  the  world,  destined  to  be  pulled  out 
of  the  soil  where  she  had  flourished  and  thrown  con- 
temptuously aside.  A  wretched  sense  of  utter  help- 
lessness stole  over  her, — of  incapacity,  weakness  and 
loneliness.  She  tried  to  think, — to  see  her  way 
through  the  strange  fog  of  untoward  circumstance 
that  had  so  suddenly  enshrouded  her.  What  would 
happen  when  Farmer  Jocelyn  died?  For  one  thing 
she  would  have  to  quit  Briar  Farm.  She  could  not 
stay  in  it  when  Robin  Clifford  was  its  master.  He 
would  marry,  of  course ;  he  would  be  sure  to  marry ; 
and  there  would  be  no  place  for  her  in  his  home. 
She  would  have  to  earn  her  bread;  and  the  only 
way  to  do  that  would  be  to  go  out  to  service.  She 
had  a  good  store  of  useful  domestic  knowledge, — 
she  could  bake  and  brew,  and  wash  and  scour;  she 
knew  how  to  rear  poultry  and  keep  bees;  she  could 
spin  and  knit  and  embroider;  indeed  her  list  of 
household  accomplishments  would  have  startled  any 


74  INNOCENT 

girl  fresh  out  of  a  modern  Government  school,  where 
things  that  are  useful  in  life  are  frequently  forgot- 
ten, and  things  that  are  not  by  any  means  necessary 
are  taught  as  though  they  were  imperative.  One 
other  accomplishment  she  had, — one  that  she  hardly 
whispered  to  herself — she  could  write, — write  what 
she  herself  called  "nonsense."  Scores  of  little  poems 
and  essays  and  stories  were  locked  away  in  a  small 
old  bureau  in  a  corner  of  the  room, — confessions  and 
expressions  of  pent-up  feeling  which,  but  for  this 
outlet,  would  have  troubled  her  brain  and  hindered 
her  rest.  They  were  mostly,  as  she  frankly  admit- 
ted to  her  own  conscience,  in  the  "style"  of  the  Sieur 
Amadis,  and  were  inspired  by  his  poetic  suggestions. 
She  had  no  fond  or  exaggerated  idea  of  their  merit, 
— they  were  the  result  of  solitary  hours  and  long 
silences  in  which  she  had  felt  she  must  speak  to 
someone, — exchange  thoughts  with  someone, — or 
suffer  an  almost  intolerable  restraint.  That  "some- 
one" was  for  her  the  long  dead  knight  who  had  come 
to  England  in  the  train  of  the  Due  d'Anjou.  To 
him  she  spoke, — to  him  she  told  all  her  troubles — 
but  to  no  one  else  did  she  ever  breathe  her  thoughts, 
or  disclose  a  line  of  what  she  had  written.  She  had 
often  wondered  whether,  if  she  sent  these  strug- 
gling literary  efforts  to  a  magazine  or  newspaper, 
they  would  be  accepted  and  printed.  But  she  never 
made  the  trial,  for  the  reason  that  such  newspaper 
literature  as  found  its  way  into  Briar  Farm  filled 
her  with  amazement,  repulsion  and  disgust.  There 
was  nothing  in  any  modern  magazine  that  at  all  re- 
sembled the  delicate,  pointed  and  picturesque 
phraseology  of  the  Sieur  Amadis!  Strange,  coarse 
slang-words  were  used, — and  the  news  of  the  day 
was  slung  together  in  loose  ungrammatical  sentences 
and  chopped-up  paragraphs  of  clumsy  construction, 
lacking  all  pith  and  eloquence.  So,  repelled  by  the 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     75 

horror  of  twentieth-century  "style,"  she  had  hidden 
her  manuscripts  deeper  than  ever  in  the  old  bureau, 
under  little  silk  sachets  of  dried  rose-leaves  and 
lavender,  as  though  they  were  love-letters  or  old 
lace.  And  when  sometimes  she  shut  herself  up  and 
read  them  over  she  felt  like  one  of  Hamlet's  "guilty 
creatures  sitting  at  a  play."  Her  literary  attempts 
seemed  to  reproach  her  for  then*  inadequacy,  and 
when  she  made  some  fresh  addition  to  her  store  of 
written  thoughts,  her  crimes  seemed  to  herself 
doubled  and  weighted.  She  would  often  sit  musing, 
with  a  little  frown  puckering  her  brow,  wondering 
why  she  should  be  moved  to  write  at  all,  yet  wholly 
unable  to  resist  the  impulse. 

To-night,  however,  she  scarcely  remembered  these 
outbreaks  of  her  dreaming  fancy, — the  sordid,  hard, 
matter-of-fact  side  of  life  alone  presented  itself  to 
her  depressed  imagination.  She  pictured  herself 
going  into  service— as  what?  Kitchen-maid,  prob- 
ably,—she  was  not  tall  enough  for  a  house-parlour- 
maid. House-parlourmaids  were  bound  to  be  effec- 
tive,— even  dignified, — in  height  and  appearance. 
She  had  seen  one  of  these  superior  beings  in  church 
on  Sundays — a  slim,  stately  young  woman  with 
waved  hair  and  a  hat  as  fashionable  as  that  worn 
by  her  mistress,  the  Squire's  lady.  With  a  deepen- 
ing sense  of  humiliation,  Innocent  felt  that  her  very 
limitation  of  inches  was  against  her.  Could  she  be 
a  nursery-governess?  Hardly;  for  though  she  liked 
good-tempered,  well-behaved  children,  she  could  not 
even  pretend  to  endure  them  when  they  were  other- 
wise. Screaming,  spiteful,  quarrelsome  children  were 
to  her  less  interesting  than  barking  puppies  or 
squealing  pigs ; — besides,  she  knew  she  could  not  be 
an  efficient  teacher  of  so  much  as  one  accomplish- 
ment. Music,  for  instance;  what  had  she  learned 
of  music?  She  could  play  on  an  ancient  spinet 


76  INNOCENT 

which  was  one  of  the  chief  treasures  of  the  "best 
parlour"  of  Briar  Farm,  and  she  could  sing  old  bal- 
lads very  sweetly  and  plaintively, — but  of  "tech- 
nique" and  "style"  and  all  the  latter-day  methods 
of  musical  acquirement  and  proficiency  she  was  ab- 
solutely ignorant.  Foreign  languages  were  a  dead 
letter  to  her — except  old  French.  She  could  under- 
stand that;  and  Villon's  famous  verses,  "Ou  sont 
les  neiges  d'antan?"  were  as  familiar  to  her  as  Her- 
rick's  "Come,  my  Corinna,  let  us  go  a-maying." 
But,  on  the  whole,  she  was  strangely  and  poorly 
equipped  for  the  battle  of  life.  Her  knowledge  of 
baking,  brewing,  and  general  housewifery  would 
have  stood  her  in  good  stead  on  some  Colonial  set- 
tlement,— but  she  had  scarcely  heard  of  these  far- 
away refuges  for  the  destitute,  as  she  so  seldom  read 
the  newspapers.  Old  Hugo  Jocelyn  looked  upon  the 
cheap  daily  press  as  "the  curse  of  the  country,"  and 
never  willingly  allowed  a  newspaper  to  come  into 
the  living-rooms  of  Briar  Farm.  They  were  rele- 
gated entirely  to  the  kitchen  and  outhouses,  where 
the  farm  labourers  smoked  over  them  and  discussed 
them  to  their  hearts'  content,  seldom  venturing, 
however,  to  bring  any  item  of  so-called  "news"  to 
their  master's  consideration.  If  they  ever  chanced 
to  do  so,  he  would  generally  turn  round  upon  them 
with  a  few  cutting  observations,  such  as, — 

"How  do  you  know  it's  true?  Who  gives  the 
news?  Where's  the  authority?  And  what  do  I 
care  if  some  human  brute  has  murdered  his  wife 
and  blown  out  his  own  brains?  Am  I  going  to  be 
any  the  better  for  reading  such  a  tale?  And  if  one 
Government  is  in  or  t'other  out,  what  does  it  mat- 
ter to  me,  or  to  any  of  you,  so  long  as  you  can  work 
and  pay  your  way?  The  newspapers  are  always 
trying  to  persuade  us  to  meddle  in  other  folks's 
business; — I  say,  take  care  of  your  own  affairs! — 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     7T 

serve  God  and  obey  the  laws  of  the  country,  and 
there  won't  be  much  going  wrong  with  you !  If  you 
must  read,  read  a  decent  book — something  that  will 
last — not  a  printed  sheet  full  of  advertisements 
that's  fresh  one  day  and  torn  up  for  waste  paper  the 
next!" 

Under  the  sway  of  these  prejudiced  and  arbitrary 
opinions,  it  was  not  possible  for  Innocent  to  have 
much  knowledge  of  the  world  that  lay  outside  Briar 
Farm.  Sometimes  she  found  Priscilla  reading  an 
old  magazine  or  looking  at  a  picture-paper,  and  she 
would  borrow  these  and  take  them  up  to  her  own 
room  surreptitiously  for  an  hour  or  so,  but  she  was 
always  more  or  less  pained  and  puzzled  by  their  con- 
tents. It  seemed  to  her  that  there  were  an  ex- 
traordinary number  of  pictures  of  women  with 
scarcely  any  clothes  on,  and  she  could  not  under- 
stand how  they  managed  to  be  pictured  at  all  in 
such  scanty  attire. 

"Who  are  they?"  she  asked  of  Priscilla  on  one 
occasion — "And  how  is  it  that  they  are  photo- 
graphed like  this?  It  must  be  so  shameful  for 
them!" 

Priscilla  explained  as  best  she  could  that  they 
were  "dancers  and  the  like." 

"They  lives  by  their  legs,  lovey!"  she  said 
soothingly — "It's  only  their  legs  that  gits  them  their 
bread  and  butter,  and  I  s'pose  they're  bound  to  show 
'em  off.  Don't  you  worry  'ow  they  gits  done !  You'll 
never  come  across  any  of  'em!" 

Innocent  shut  her  sensitive  mouth  in  a  firm, 
proud  line. 

"I  hope  not!"  she  said. 

And  she  felt  as  if  she  had  almost  wronged  the 
sanctity  of  the  little  study  which  had  formerly  be- 
longed to  the  Sieur  Amadis  by  allowing  such  pic- 
tures to  enter  it.  Of  course  she  knew  that  dancers 


78  INNOCENT 

and  actors,  both  male  and  female,  existed, — a  whole 
troupe  of  them  came  every  year  to  the  small  theatre 
of  the  country  town  which,  by  breaking  out  into  an 
eruption  of  new  slate-roofed  houses  among  the  few 
remaining  picturesque  gables  and  tiles  of  an  earlier 
period,  boasted  of  its  "advancement"  some  eight  or 
ten  miles  away ;  but  her  "father,"  as  she  had  thought 
him,  had  an  insurmountable  objection  to  what  he 
termed  "gadding  abroad,"  and  would  not  allow  her 
to  be  seen  even  at  the  annual  fair  in  the  town,  much 
less  at  the  theatre.  Moreover,  it  happened  once 
that  a  girl  in  the  village  had  run  away  with  a  stroll- 
ing player  and  had  gone  on  the  stage, — an  incident 
which  had  caused  a  great  sensation  in  the  tiny  wood- 
encircled  hamlet,  and  had  brought  all  the  old  women 
of  the  place  out  to  their  doorsteps  to  croak  and 
chatter,  and  prognosticate  terrible  things  in  the  fu- 
ture for  the  eloping  damsel.  Innocent  alone  had 
ventured  to  defend  her. 

"If  she  loved  the  man  she  was  right  to  go  with 
him,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  about  love!"  retorted  Pris- 
cilla,  shaking  her  head — "That's  fancy  rubbish! 
You  know  naught  about  it,  dearie!  On  the  stage 
indeed!  Poor  little  hussy!  She'll  be  on  the  street 
in  a  year  or  two,  God  help  her!" 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Innocent.  "Is  it  to  be  a 
beggar?" 

Priscilla  made  no  reply  beyond  her  usual  sniff, 
which  expressed  volumes. 

"If  she  has  found  someone  who  really  cares  for 
her,  she  will  never  want,"  Innocent  went  on,  gently. 
"No  man  could  be  so  cruel  as  to  take  away  a  girl 
from  her  home  for  his  own  pleasure  and  then  leave 
her  alone  in  the  world.  It  would  be  impossible! 
You  must  not  think  such  hard  things,  Priscilla!" 

And,  smiling,  she  had  gone  her  way, — while  Pris- 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT  79 

cilia,  shaking  her  head  again,  had  looked  after  her, 
dimly  wondering  how  long  she  would  keep  her  faith 
in  men. 

On  this  still  moonlight  night,  when  the  sadness  of 
her  soul  seemed  heavier  than  she  could  bear,  her 
mind  suddenly  reverted  to  this  episode.  She  thought 
of  the  girl  who  had  run  away ;  and  remembered  that 
no  one  in  the  village  had  ever  seen  or  heard  of  her 
again,  not  even  her  patient  hard-working  parents  to 
whom  she  had  been  a  pride  and  joy. 

"Now  she  had  a  real  father  and  mother!"  she 
mused,  wistfully — "They  loved  her  and  would  have 
done  anything  for  her — yet  she  ran  away  from  them 
with  a  stranger!  I  could  never  have  done  that! 
But  I  have  no  father  and  no  mother — no  one  but 
Dad! — ah! — how  I  have  loved  Dad! — and  yet  I 
don't  belong  to  him — and  when  he  is  dead " 

Here  an  overpowering  sense  of  calamity  swept 
over  her,  and  dropping  on  her  knees  by  the  open 
window  she  laid  her  head  on  her  folded  arms  and 
wept  bitterly. 

A  voice  called  her  in  subdued  accents  once  or 
twice,  "Innocent!  Innocent!" — but  she  did  not  hear. 

Presently  a  rose  flung  through  the  window  fell  on 
her  bent  head.  She  started  up,  alarmed. 

"Innocent!" 

Timidly  she  leaned  out  over  the  window-sill,  look- 
ing down  into  the  dusky  green  of  clambering  foliage, 
and  saw  a  familiar  face  smiling  up  at  her.  She 
uttered  a  soft  cry. 

"Robin!" 

"Yes — it's  Robin!"  he  replied.  "Innocent,  what's 
the  matter?  I  heard  you  crying!" 

"No — no!"  she  answered,  whisperingly — "It's 
nothing!  Oh,  Robin! — why  are  you  here  at  this 
time  of  night?  Do  go  away!" 

"Not  I!"  and  Robin  placed  one  foot  firmly  on  the 


80  INNOCENT 

tough  and  gnarled  branch  of  a  giant  wistaria  that 
was  trained  thickly  all  over  that  side  of  the  house — 
"I'm  coming  up!" 

"Oh,  Robin!"  And  straightway  Innocent  ran 
back  into  her  room,  there  to  throw  on  a  dark  cloak 
which  enveloped  her  so  completely  that  only  her 
small  fair  head  showed  above  its  enshrouding  folds, 
— then  returning  slowly  she  watched  with  mingled 
interest  and  trepidation  the  gradual  ascent  of  her 
lover,  as,  like  another  Romeo,  he  ascended  the  natu- 
ral ladder  formed  by  the  thick  rope-like  twisted 
stems  of  the  ancient  creeper,  grown  sturdy  with 
years  and  capable  of  bearing  a  much  greater  weight 
than  that  of  the  light  and  agile  young  man,  who, 
with  a  smile  of  amused  triumph,  at  last  brought 
himself  on  a  level  with  the  window-sill  and  seated 
himself  on  its  projecting  ledge. 

"I  won't  come  in,"  he  said,  mischievously — 
"though  I  might! — if  I  dared!  But  I  mustn't  break 
into  my  lady's  bower  without  her  sovereign  per- 
mission! I  say,  Innocent,  how  pretty  you  look! 
Don't  be  frightened! — dear,  dear  little  girl, — you 
know  I  wouldn't  touch  so  much  as  a  hair  of  your 
sweet  little  head!  I'm  not  a  brute — and  though 
I'm  longing  to  kiss  you  I  promise  I  won't  even  try!" 

She  moved  away  from  him  into  the  deeper 
shadow,  but  a  ray  of  the  moon  showed  him  her  face, 
very  pale,  with  a  deep  sadness  upon  it  which  was 
strange  and  new  to  him. 

"Tell  me  what's  wrong?"  he  asked.  "I've  been 
too  wide-awake  and  restless  to  go  to  bed, — so  I  came 
out  in  the  garden  just  to  breathe  the  air  and  look 
up  at  your  window — and  I  heard  a  sound  of  sob- 
bing like  that  of  a  little  child  who  was  badly  hurt — 
Innocent!" 

For  she  had  suddenly  stretched  out  her  hands  to 
him  in  impulsive  appeal. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     81 

"Oh  yes — that's  true! — I  am  badly  hurt,  Robin!" 
she  said,  in  low  trembling  accents — "So  badly  hurt 
that  I  think  I  shall  never  get  over  it!" 

Surprised,  he  took  her  hands  in  his  own  with  a 
gentle  reverence,  though  to  be  able  to  draw  her 
nearer  to  him  thus,  set  his  heart  beating  quickly. 

"What  is  it?"  he  questioned  her,  anxiously,  as  all 
unconsciously  she  leaned  closer  towards  him  and  he 
saw  her  soft  eyes,  wet  with  tears,  shining  upon  him 
like  stars  in  the  gloom.  "Is  it  bad  news  of  Uncle 
Hugo?" 

"Bad  news  of  him,  but  worse  of  me!"  she  an- 
swered, sighingly.  "Oh,  Robin,  shall  I  tell  you?" 

He  looked  at  her  tenderly.  The  dark  cloak  about 
her  had  fallen  a  little  aside,  and  showed  a  gleam  of 
white  neck  emerging  from  snowy  drapery  under- 
neath— it  was,  to  his  fancy,  as  though  a  white  rose- 
petal  had  been  suddenly  and  delicately  unfurled. 
He  longed  to  kiss  that  virginal  whiteness,  and  trem- 
bled at  the  audacity  of  his  own  desire. 

"Yes,  dear,  tell  me!"  he  murmured,  abstractedly, 
scarcely  thinking  of  what  he  was  saying,  and  only 
conscious  of  the  thrill  and  ecstasy  of  love  which 
seemed  to  him  the  one  thing  necessary  for  existence 
in  earth  or  heaven. 

And  so,  with  her  hands  still  warmly  held  in  his, 
she  told  hun  all.  In  a  sad  voice,  with  lowered  eyes 
and  quivering  lips,  she  related  her  plaintive  little 
history,  disclosing  her  unbaptised  shame, — her  un- 
owned parentage, — her  desperately  forlorn  and 
lonely  condition.  And  Robin  listened — amazed  and 
perplexed. 

"It  seems  to  be  all  my  fault,"  concluded  Inno- 
cent, sorrowfully — "and  yet  it  is  not  really  so!  Of 
course  I  ought  never  to  have  been  born — but  I 
couldn't  help  it,  could  I?  And  now  it  seems  quite 
wrong  for  me  to  even  live! — I  am  not  wanted — and 


82  INNOCENT 

ever  since  I  was  twelve  years  old  your  Uncle  has 
only  kept  me  out  of  charity— — " 

But  at  this  Robin  started  as  though  some  one  had 
struck  him. 

"Innocent!"  he  exclaimed — "Do  not  say  such  a 
thing! — do  not  think  it!  Uncle  Hugo  has  loved 
you! — and  you — you  have  loved  him!" 

She  drew  her  hands  away  from  his  and  covered 
her  face. 

"I  know! — I  know!"  and  her  tears  fell  fast  again 
— "But  I  am  not  his,  and  he  is  not  mine!" 

Robin  was  silent.  The  position  was  so  unex- 
pected and  bewildering  that  he  hardly  knew  what 
to  say.  But  chiefly  he  felt  that  he  must  try  and 
comfort  this  little  weeping  angel,  who,  so  far  as  he 
was  concerned,  held  his  life  subservient  to  her 
charm.  He  began  talking  softly  and  cheerily: 

"Why  should  it  matter  so  much?"  he  said.  "If 
you  do  not  know  who  you  are — if  none  of  us  know — 
it  may  be  more  fortunate  for  you  than  you  can 
imagine!  We  cannot  tell!  Your  own  father  may 
claim  you — your  own  mother — such  things  are  quite 
possible!  You  may  be  like  the  princess  of  a  fairy- 
tale— rich  people  may  come  and  take  you  away  from 
Briar  Farm  and  from  me — and  you  will  be  too  grand 
to  think  of  us  any  more,  and  I  shall  only  be  the  poor 
farmer  in  your  eyes — you  will  wonder  how  you 
could  ever  have  spoken  to  me " 

"Robin!"  Her  hands  dropped  from  her  face  and 
she  looked  at  him  in  reproachful  sadness.  "Why 
do  you  say  this?  You  know  it  could  never  be  true! 
— never!  If  I  had  a  father  who  cared  for  me,  he 
would  not  have  forgotten — and  my  mother,  if  she 
were  a  true  mother,  would  have  tried  to  find  me 
long  ago!  No,  Robin! — I  ought  to  have  died  when 
I  was  a  baby.  No  one  wants  me — I  am  a  deserted 
child — 'base-born/  as  your  Uncle  Hugo  says, — and 


of  course  he  is  right — but  the  sin  of  it  is  not 
mine ! " 

She  had  such  a  pitiful,  fragile  and  fair  appear- 
ance, standing  half  in  shadow  and  half  in  the  mys- 
tic radiance  of  the  moon,  that  Robin  Clifford's  heart 
ached  with  love  and  longing  for  her. 

"Sin!"  he  echoed — "Sin  and  you  have  never  met 
each  other!  You  are  like  your  name,  innocent  of  all 
evil!  Oh,  Innocent!  If  you  could  only  care  for  me 
as  I  care  for  you!" 

She  gave  a  shivering  sigh. 

"Do  you — can  you  care? — now?"  she  asked. 

"Of  course!  What  is  there  in  all  this  story  that 
can  change  my  love  for  you?  That  you  are  not  my 
cousin? — that  my  uncle  is  not  your  own  father? 
What  does  that  matter  to  me?  You  are  someone 
else's  child,  and  if  we  never  know  who  that  someone 
is,  why  should  we  vex  ourselves  about  it?  You  are 
you! — you  are  Innocent! — the  sweetest,  dearest 
little  girl  that  ever  lived,  and  I  adore  you!  .What 
difference  does  it  make  that  you  are  not  Uncle 
Hugo's  daughter?" 

"It  makes  a  great  difference  to  me,"  she  answered, 
sadly — "I  do  not  belong  any  more  to  the  Sieur  Ama- 
dis  de  Jocelin!" 

Robin  stared,  amazed — then  smiled. 

"Why,  Innocent!"  he  exclaimed — "Surely  you're 
not  worrying  your  mi&d  over  that  old  knight,  dead 
and  gone  more  than  three  hundred  years  ago !  Dear 
little  goose!  How  on  earth  does  he  come  into  this 
trouble  of  yours?" 

"He  comes  in  everywhere!"  she  replied,  clasping 
and  unclasping  her  hands  nervously  as  she  spoke. 
"You  don't  know,  Robin! — you  would  never  under- 
stand! But  I  have  loved  the  Sieur  Amadis  ever 
since  I  can  remember; — I  have  talked  to  him  and 
studied  with  him! — I  have  read  his  old  books,  and 


84  INNOCENT 

all  the  poems  he  wrote — and  he  seemed  to  be  my 
friend!  I  thought  I  was  born  of  his  kindred — and 
I  was  proud  of  it — and  I  felt  it  would  be  my  duty  to 
live  at  Briar  Farm  always  because  he  would  wish  his 
line  quite  unbroken — and  I  think — perhaps — yes,  I 
think  I  might  have  married  you  and  been  a  good 
wife  to  you  just  for  his  sake! — and  now  it  is  all 
spoiled! — because  though  you  will  be  the  master  of 
Briar  Farm,  you  will  not  be  the  lineal  descendant  of 
the  Sieur  Amadis!  No, — it  is  finished! — all  finished 
with  your  Uncle  Hugo ! — and  the  doctors  say  he  can 
only  live  a  year!" 

Her  grief  was  so  touching  and  pathetic  that  Robin 
could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  make  a  jest  of  the 
romance  she  had  woven  round  the  old  French  knight 
whose  history  had  almost  passed  into  a  legend. 
After  all,  what  she  said  was  true — the  line  of  the 
Jocelyn  family  had  been  kept  intact  through  three 
centuries  till  now — and  a  direct  heir  had  always  in- 
herited Briar  Farm.  He  himself  had  taken  a  cer- 
tain pride  in  thinking  that  Uncle  Hugo's  "love- 
child,"  as  he  had  believed  her  to  be,  was  at  any  rate, 
love-child  or  no,  born  of  the  Jocelyn  blood — and 
that  when  he  married  her,  as  he  hoped  and  fully 
purposed  to  do,  he  would  discard  his  own  name  of 
Clifford  and  take  that  of  Jocelyn,  in  order  to  keep 
the  continuity  of  associations  unbroken  as  far  as 
possible.  All  these  ideas  were  put  to  flight  by  Inno- 
cent's story,  and,  as  the  position  became  more  evi- 
dent to  him,  the  smiling  expression  on  his  face 
changed  to  one  of  gravity. 

"Dear  Innocent,"  he  said,  at  last — "Don't  cry! 
It  cuts  me  to  the  heart!  I  would  give  my  very  life 
to  save  you  from  a  sorrow — you  know  I  would!  If 
you  ever  thought,  as  you  say,  that  you  could  or 
would  marry  me  for  the  sake  of  the  Sieur  Amadis, 
you  might  just  as  well  marry  me  now,  even  though 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     85 

the  Sieur  Amadis  is  out  of  it.  I  would  make  you  so 
happy!  I  would  indeed!  And  no  one  need  ever 
know  that  you  are  not  really  the  lineal  descendant 
of  the  Knight " 

She  interrupted  him. 

"Priscilla  knows,"  she  said — "and,  no  matter  how 
you  look  at  it,  I  am  'base-born.'  Your  Uncle  Hugo 
has  let  all  the  village  folk  think  I  am  his  illegitimate 
child — and  that  is  'base-born'  of  itself.  Oh,  it  is 
cruel!  Even  you  thought  so,  didn't  you?" 

Robin  hesitated. 

"I  did  not  know,  dear,"  he  answered,  gently — "I 
fancied " 

"Do  not  deny  it,  Robin!"  she  said,  mournfully. 
"You  did  think  so!  Well,  it's  true  enough,  I  sup- 
pose!— I  am  'base-born' — but  your  uncle  is  not  my 
father.  He  is  a  good,  upright  man — you  can  always 
be  proud  of  him!  He  has  not  sinned, — though  he 
has  burdened  me  with  the  shame  of  sin!  I  think 
that  is  unfair, — but  I  must  bear  it  somehow,  and  I 
will  try  to  be  brave.  I'm  glad  I've  told  you  all  about 
it, — and  you  are  very  kind  to  have  taken  it  so  well 
— and  to  care  for  me  still — but  I  shall  never  marry 
you,  Robin! — never!  I  shall  never  bring  my  'base- 
born'  blood  into  the  family  of  Jocelyn!" 

His  heart  sank  as  he  heard  her — and  involuntarily 
he  stretched  out  his  arms  in  appeal. 

"Innocent!"  he  murmured — "Don't  be  hard  upon 
me!  Think  a  little  longer  before  you  leave  me 
without  any  hope!  It  means  so  much  to  my  life! 
Surely  you  cannot  be  cruel?  Do  you  care  for  me 
less  than  you  care  for  that  old  knight  buried  under 
his  own  effigy  in  the  garden?  Will  you  not  think 
kindly  of  a  living  man? — a  man  who  loves  you  be- 
yond all  things?  Oh,  Innocent! — be  gentle,  be  mer- 
ciful!" 

She  came  to  him  and  took  his  hands  in  her  own. 


86  INNOCENT 

"It  is  just  because  I  am  kind  and  gentle  and  mer- 
ciful," she  said,  in  her  sweet,  grave  accents,  "that  I 
will  not  marry  you,  dear!  I  know  I  am  right, — and 
you  will  think  so  too,  in  time.  For  the  moment  you 
imagine  me  to  be  much  better  and  prettier  than  I 
am — and  that  there  is  no  one  like  me ! — poor  Robin ! 
— you  are  blind! — there  are  so  many  sweet  and 
lovely  girls,  well  born,  with  fathers  and  mothers 
to  care  for  them — and  you,  with  your  good  looks 
and  kind  ways,  could  marry  any  one  of  them — and 
you  will,  some  day!  Good-night,  dear!  You  have 
stayed  here  a  long  time  talking  to  me! — just  sup- 
pose you  were  seen  sitting  on  this  window-ledge  so 
late! — it  is  past  midnight! — what  would  be  said  of 
me!" 

"What  could  be  said?"  demanded  Robin,  de- 
fiantly. "I  came  up  here  of  my  own  accord, — the 
blame  would  be  mine!" 

She  shook  her  head  sadly,  smiling  a  little. 

"Ah,  Robin!  The  man  is  never  blamed!  It's 
always  the  woman's  fault!" 

"Where's  your  fault  to-night?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  most  plain!"  she  answered.  "When  I  saw 
you  coming,  I  ought  to  have  shut  the  window,  drawn 
the  curtains,  and  left  you  to  clamber  down  the  wall 
again  as  fast  as  you  clambered  up !  But  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  what  had  happened — and  how  every- 
thing had  changed  for  me — and  now — now  that  you 
know  all — good-night!" 

He  looked  at  her  longingly.  If  she  would  only 
show  some  little  sign  of  tenderness! — if  he  might 
just  kiss  her  hand,  he  thought!  But  she  withdrew 
into  the  shadow,  and  he  had  no  excuse  for  lingering. 

"Good-night!"  fee  said,  softly.  "Good-night,  my 
angel  Innocent!  Good-night,  my  little  love!" 

She  made  no  response  and  moved  slowly  back- 
ward into  the  room.  But  as  he  reluctantly  left  his 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     87 

point  of  vantage  and  began  to  descend,  stepping 
lightly  from  branch  to  branch  of  the  accommodating 
wistaria,  he  saw  the  shadowy  outline  of  her  figure 
once  more  as  she  stretched  out  a  hand  and  closed  the 
lattice  window,  drawing  a  curtain  across  it.  With 
the  drawing  of  that  curtain  the  beauty  of  the  sum- 
mer night  was  over  for  him,  and  poising  himself 
lightly  on  a  tough  stem  which  was  twisted  strongly 
enough  to  give  him  adequate  support  and  which 
projected  some  four  feet  above  the  smooth  grass 
below,  he  sprang  down.  Scarcely  had  he  touched 
the  ground  when  a  man,  leaping  suddenly  out  of  a 
thick  clump  of  bushes  near  that  side  of  the  house, 
caught  him  in  a  savage  grip  and  shook  him  with  all 
the  fury  of  an  enraged  mastiff  shaking  a  rat.  Taken 
thus  unawares,  and  rendered  almost  breathless  by 
the  swiftness  of  the  attack,  Clifford  struggled  in  the 
grasp  of  his  assailant  and  fought  with  him  desper- 
ately for  a  moment  without  any  idea  of  his  identity, 
— then  as  by  a  dexterous  twist  of  body  he  managed 
to  partially  extricate  himself,  he  looked  up  and  saw 
the  face  of  Ned  Landon,  livid  and  convulsed  with 
passion. 

"Landon!"  he  gasped — "What's  the  matter  with 
you?  Are  you  mad?" 

"Yes!"  answered  Landon,  hoarsely — "And  enough 
to  make  me  so!  You  devil!  You've  ruined  the 
girl!'.' 

With  a  rapid  movement,  unexpected  by  his 
antagonist,  Clifford  disengaged  himself  and  stood 
free. 

"You  lie!'  he  said — "And  you  shall  pay  for  it! 
Come  away  from  the  house  and  fight  like  a  man! 
Come  into  the  grass  meadow  yonder,  where  no  one 
can  see  or  hear  us.  Come!" 

Landon  paused,  drawing  his  breath  thickly,  and 
looking  like  a  snarling  beast  baulked  of  its  prey. 


88  INNOCENT 

"That's  a  trick!"  he  said,  scornfully— "You'll  run 
away!" 

"Come!"  repeated  Clifford,  vehemently — "You're 
more  likely  to  run  away  than  I  am!  Come!" 

Landon  glanced  him  over  from  head  to  foot — the 
moonbeams  fell  brightly  on  his  athletic  figure  and 
handsome  face — then  turned  on  his  heel. 

"No,  I  won't!"  he  said,  curtly— "I've  done  all  I 
want  to  do  for  to-night.  I've  shaken  you  like  the 
puppy  you  are!  To-morrow  we'll  settle  our  differ- 
ences." 

For  all  answer  Clifford  sprang  at  him  and  struck 
him  smartly  across  the  face.  In  another  moment 
both  men  were  engaged  in  a  fierce  tussle,  none  the 
less  deadly  because  so  silent.  A  practised  boxer  and 
wrestler,  Clifford  grappled  more  and  more  closely 
with  the  bigger  but  clumsier  man,  dragging  him 
steadily  inch  by  inch  further  away  from  the  house 
as  they  fought.  More  desperate,  more  determined 
became  the  struggle,  till  by  two  or  three  adroit 
manoeuvres  Clifford  got  his  opponent  under  him  and 
bore  him  gradually  to  the  ground,  where,  kneeling 
on  his  chest,  he  pinned  him  down. 

"Let  me  go!"  muttered  Landon — "You're  killing 
me!" 

"Serve  you  right!"  answered  Clifford — "You 
scoundrel!  My  uncle  shall  know  of  this!" 

"Tell  him  what  you  like!"  retorted  Landon, 
faintly — "I  don't  care!  Get  off  my  chest! — you're 
suffocating  me!" 

Clifford  slightly  relaxed  the  pressure  of  his  hands 
and  knees. 

"Will  you  apologise?"  he  demanded. 

"Apologise?— for  what?" 

"For  your  insolence  to  me  and  my  cousin." 

"Cousin  be  hanged!"  snarled  Landon — "She's  no 
more  your  cousin  than  I  am — she's  only  a  nameless 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     89 

bastard!  I  heard  her  tell  you  so!  And  fine  airs 
she  gives  herself  on  nothing!" 

"You  miserable  spy!"  and  Clifford  again  held  him 
down  as  in  a  vise — "Whatever  you  heard  is  none  of 
your  business!  Will  you  apologise?" 

"Oh,  I'll  apologise,  if  you  like! — anything  to  get 
your  weight  off  me!" — and  Landon  made  an  abor- 
tive effort  to  rise.  "But  I  keep  my  own  opinion  all 
the  same!" 

Slowly  Robin  released  him,  and  watched  him  as 
he  picked  himself  up,  with  an  ah*  of  mingled  scorn 
and  pity.  Landon  laughed  forcedly,  passing  one 
hand  across  his  forehead  and  staring  in  a  dazed 
fashion  at  the  shadows  cast  on  the  ground  by  the 
moon. 

"Yes — I  keep  my  own  opinion!"  he  repeated,  stu- 
pidly. "You've  got  the  better  of  me  just  now — but 
you  won't  always,  my  pert  Cock  Robin !  You  won't 
always.  Don't  you  think  it!  Briar  Farm  and  I 
may  part  company — but  there's  a  bigger  place  than 
Briar  Farm — there's  the  world! — that's  a  wide  field 
and  plenty  of  crops  growing  on  it!  And  the  men 
that  sow  those  kind  of  crops  and  reap  them  and 
bring  them  in,  are  better  farmers  than  you'll  ever 
be!  As  for  your  girl!" — here  his  face  darkened  and 
he  shook  his  fist  towards  the  lattice  window  behind 
which  slept  the  unconscious  cause  of  the  quarrel — 
"You  can  keep  her!  A  nice  'Innocent'  she  is! — 
talking  with  a  man  in  her  bedroom  after  midnight! 
— why,  I  wouldn't  have  her  as  a  gift — not  now!" 

Choking  with  rage,  Clifford  sprang  towards  him 
again — Landon  stepped  back. 

"Hands  off!"  he  said— "Don't  touch  me!  I'm  in 
a  killing  mood!  I've  a  knife  on  me — you  haven't. 
You're  the  master — I'm  the  man — and  I'll  play  fair! 
I've  my  future  to  think  of,  and  I  don't  want  to  start 
with  a  murder!" 


90  INNOCENT, 

With  this,  he  turned  his  back  and  strode  off,  walk- 
ing somewhat  unsteadily  like  a  blind  man  feeling 
his  way. 

Clifford  stood  for  a  moment,  inert.  The  angry 
blood  burned  in  his  face, — his  hands  were  involun- 
tarily clenched, — he  was  impatient  with  himself  for 
having,  as  he  thought,  let  Eandon  off  too  easily.  He 
saw  at  once  the  possibility  of  mischief  brewing,  and 
hastily  considered  how  it  could  best  be  circum- 
vented. 

"The  simplest  way  out  of  it  is  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  everything,"  he  decided,  at  last.  "To- 
morrow I'll  see  Uncle  Hugo  early  in  the  morning 
and  tell  him  just  what  has  happened." 

Under  the  influence  of  this  resolve,  he  gradually 
calmed  down  and  re-entered  the  house.  And  the 
moonlight,  widening  and  then  waning  over  the 
smooth  and  peaceful  meadows  of  Briar  Farm,  had 
it  all  its  own  way  for  the  rest  of  the  night,  and  as  it 
filtered  through  the  leafy  branches  of  the  elms  and 
beeches  which  embowered  the  old  tomb  of  the  Sieur 
Amadis  de  Jocelin  it  touched  with  a  pale  glitter  the 
stone  hands  of  his  sculptured  effigy, — hands  that 
were  folded  prayerfully  above  the  motto, — "Mon 
cceur  me  soutien!" 


CHAPTER  V 

As  early  as  six  o'clock  the  next  morning  Innocent 
was  up  and  dressed,  and,  hastening  down  to  the 
kitchen,  busied  herself,  as  was  her  usual  daily  cus- 
tom, in  assisting  Priscilla  with  the  housework  and 
the  preparation  for  breakfast.  There  was  always 
plenty  to  do,  and  as  she  moved  quickly  to  and  fro, 
fulfilling  the  various  duties  she  had  taken  upon  her- 
self and  which  she  performed  with  unobtrusive  care 
and  exactitude,  the  melancholy  forebodings  of  the 
past  night  partially  cleared  away  from  her  mind. 
Yet  there  was  a  new  expression  on  her  face — one  of 
sadness  and  seriousness  unfamiliar  to  its  almost 
child-like  features,  and  it  was  not  easy  for  her  to 
smile  in  her  ordinary  bright  way  at  the  round  of 
scolding  which  Priscilla  administered  every  morning 
to  the  maids  who  swept  and  scrubbed  and  dusted 
and  scoured  the  kitchen  till  no  speck  of  dirt  was 
anywhere  visible,  till  the  copper  shone  like  mirrors, 
and  the  tables  were  nearly  as  smooth  as  polished 
silver  or  ivory.  Going  into  the  dairy  where  pans 
of  new  milk  stood  ready  for  skimming,  and  looking 
out  for  a  moment  through  the  lattice  window,  she 
saw  old  Hugo  Jocelyn  and  Robin  Clifford  walking 
together  across  the  garden,  engaged  in  close  and 
earnest  conversation.  A  little  sigh  escaped  her  as 
she  thought:  "They  are  talking  about  me!" — then, 
on  a  sudden  impulse,  she  went  back  into  the  kitchen 
where  Priscilla  was  for  the  moment  alone,  the  other 
servants  having  dispersed  into  various  quarters  of 
the  house,  and  going  straight  up  to  her  said,  sim- 

piy— 

91 


92  INNOCENT 

"Priscilla  dear,  why  did  you  never  tell  me  that  I 
wasn't  Dad's  own  daughter?" 

Priscilla  started  violently,  and  her  always  red  face 
turned  redder, — then,  with  an  effort  to  recover  her- 
self, she  answered — 

"Lord,  lovey!  How  you  frightened  me!  Why 
didn't  I  tell  you?  Well,  in  the  first  place,  'twasn't 
none  of  my  business,  and  in  the  second,  'twouldn't 
have  done  any  good  if  I  had." 

Innocent  was  silent,  looking  at  her  with  a  piteous 
intensity. 

"And  who  is  it  that's  told  you  now?"  went  on 
Priscilla,  nervously — "some  meddlin'  old  fool " 

Innocent  raised  her  hand,  warningly. 

"Hush,  Priscilla!    Dad  himself  told  me " 

"Well,  he  might  just  as  well  have  kept  a  still 
tongue  in  his  head,"  retorted  Priscilla,  sharply. 
"He's  kept  it  for  eighteen  years,  an'  why  he  should 
let  it  go  wagging  loose  now,  the  Lord  only  knows! 
There's  no  making  out  the  ways  of  men, — they  first 
plays  the  wise  and  silent  game  like  barn-door  owls, 
— then  all  on  a  suddint-like  they  starts  cawing  gos- 
sip for  all  they're  worth,  like  crows.  And  what's  the 
good  of  tellin'  ye,  anyway?" 

"No  good,  perhaps,"  answered  Innocent,  sorrow- 
fully— "but  it's  right  I  should  know.  You  see,  I'm 
not  a  child  any  more — I'm  eighteen — that's  a 
woman — and  a  woman  ought  to  know  what  she 
must  expect  more  or  less  in  her  life 

Priscilla  leaned  on  the  newly  scrubbed  kitchen 
table  and  looked  across  at  the  girl  with  a  compas- 
sionate expression. 

"What  a  woman  must  expect  in  life  is  good  'ard 
knocks  and  blows,"  she  said — "unless  she  can  get  a 
man  to  look  arter  her  what's  not  of  the  general  kick- 
ing spirit.  Take  my  advice,  dearie!  You  marry 
Mr.  Robin! — as  good  a  boy  as  ever  breathed — he'll 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     93 

be  a  kind  fond  'usband  to  ye,  and  arter  all  that's 
what  a  woman  thrives  best  on — kindness — an' 
you've  'ad  it  all  your  life  up  to  now " 

"Priscilla,"  interrupted  Innocent,  decidedly — "I 
cannot  marry  Robin!  You  know  I  cannot!  A  poor 
nameless  girl  like  me! — why,  it  would  be  a  shame 
to  him  in  after-years.  Besides,  I  don't  love  him — 
and  it's  wicked  to  marry  a  man  you  don't  love." 

Priscilla  smothered  a  sound  between  a  grunt  and 
a  sigh. 

"You  talks  a  lot  about  love,  child,"  she  said — "but 
I'm  thinkin'  you  don't  know  much  about  it.  Them 
old  books  an'  papers  you  found  up  in  the  secret 
room  are  full  of  nonsense,  I'm  pretty  sure — an'  if 
you  believes  that  men  are  always  sighin'  an'  dyin' 
for  a  woman,  you're  mistaken — yes,  you  are,  lovey! 
They  goes  where  they  can  be  made  most  comforta- 
ble— an'  it  don't  matter  what  sort  o'  woman  gives 
the  comfort  so  long  as  they  gits  it." 

Innocent  smiled,  faintly. 

"You  don't  know  anything  about  it,  Priscilla," 
she  answered — "You  were  never  married." 

"Thank  the  Lord  and  His  goodness,  no!"  said 
Priscilla,  with  an  emphatic  sniff — "I've  never  been 
troubled  with  the  whimsies  of  a  man,  which  is  worse 
than  all  the  megrims  of  a  woman  any  day.  I've 
looked  arter  Mr.  Jocelyn  in  a  way — but  he's  no  sort 
of  a  man  to  worry  about — he  just  goes  reglar  to  the 
farmin' — an'  that's  all — a  decent  creature  always, 
an'  steady  as  his  own  oxen  what  pulls  the  plough. 
An'  when  he's  gone,  if  go  he  must,  I'll  look  arter 
you  an'  Mr.  Robin,  an'  please  God,  I'll  dance  your 

babies  on  my  old  knees "  Here  she  broke  off 

and  turned  her  head  away.  Innocent  ran  to  her, 
surprised. 

"Why,  Priscilla,  you're  crying!"  she  exclaimed — 
"Don't  do  that!  Why  should  you  cry?" 


94  INNOCENT 

"Why  indeed!"  blubbered  Priscilla— "Except  that 
I'm  a  doiterin'  fool!  I  can't  abear  the  thoughts  of 
you  turnin'  yer  back  on  the  good  that  God  gives  ye, 
an'  floutin'  Mr.  Robin,  who's  the  best  sort  o'  man 
that  ever  could  fall  to  the  lot  of  a  little  tender  maid 
like  you — why,  lovey,  you  don't  know  the  wicked- 
ness o'  this  world,  nor  the  ways  of  it — an'  you  talks 
about  love  as  if  it  was  somethin'  wonderful  an'  far 
away,  when  here  it  is  at  yer  very  feet  for  the  pickin' 
up!  What's  the  good  of  all  they  books  ye've  bin 
readin'  if  they  don't  teach  ye  that  the  old  knight 
you're  fond  of  got  so  weary  of  the  world  that  arter 
tryin'  everythin'  in  turn  he  found  nothin'  better 
than  to  marry  a  plain,  straight  country  wench  and 
settle  down  in  Briar  Farm  for  all  his  days?  Ain't 
that  the  lesson  he's  taught  ye?" 

She  paused,  looking  hopefully  at  the  girl  through 
her  tears — but  Innocent's  small  fair  face  was  pale 
and  calm,  though  her  eyes  shone  with  a  brilliancy 
as  of  suppressed  excitement. 

"No,"  she  said — -"He  has  not  taught  me  that  at 
all.  He  came  here  to  'seek  forgetfulness' — so  it  is 
said  in  the  words  he  carved  on  the  panel  in  his 
study, — but  we  do  not  know  that  he  ever  really  for- 
got. He  only  'found  peace/  and  peace  is  not  happi- 
ness— except  for  the  very  old." 

"Peace  is  not  happiness!"  re-echoed  Priscilla, 
staring — "That's  a  queer  thing  to  say,  lovey !  What 
do  you  call  being  happy?" 

"It  is  difficult  to  explain" — and  a  swift  warm 
colour  flew  over  the  girl's  cheeks,  expressing  some 
wave  of  hidden  feeling — "Your  idea  of  happiness 
and  mine  must  be  so  different!"  She  smiled — 
"Dear,  good  Priscilla!  You  are  so  much  more  easily 
contented  than  I  am!" 

Priscilla  looked  at  her  with  a  great  tenderness  in 
her  dim  old  grey  eyes. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     95 

"See  here,  lovey!'"  she  said — "You're  just  like  a 
young  bird  on  the  edge  of  a  nest  ready  to  fly.  You 
don't  know  the  world  nor  the  ways  of  it.  Oh,  my 
dear,  it  ain't  all  gold  harvests  and  apples  ripening 
rosy  in  the  sun!  You've  lived  all  your  life  in  the 
open  country,  and  so  you've  always  had  the  good 
God  near  you, — but  there's  places  where  the  houses 
stand  so  close  together  that  the  sky  can  hardly  make 
a  patch  of  blue  between  the  smoking  chimneys — 
like  London,  for  instance — ah! — that's  where  you'd 
find  what  the  world's  like,  lovey! — where  you  feels 
so  lonesome  that  you  wonders  why  you  ever  were 
born " 

"I  wonder  that  already,"  interrupted  the  girl, 
quickly.  "Don't  worry  me,  dear!  I  have  so  much 
to  think  about — my  life  seems  so  altered  and  strange 
— I  hardly  understand  myself— and  I  don't  know 
what  I  shall  do  with  my  future — but  I  cannot — I 
will  not  marry  Robin!" 

She  turned  away  quickly  then,  to  avoid  further 
discussion. 

A  little  later  she  went  into  the  quaint  oak- 
panelled  room  where  the  fateful  disclosures  of  the 
past  night  had  been  revealed  to  her.  Here  break- 
fast was  laid,  and  the  latticed  window  was  set  wide 
open,  admitting  the  sweet  scent  of  stocks  and 
mignonette  with  every  breath  of  the  morning  air. 
She  stood  awhile  looking  out  on  the  gay  beauty  of 
the  garden,  and  her  eyes  unconsciously  filled  with 
tears. 

"Dear  home!"  she  murmured — "Home  that  is  not 
mine — that  never  will  be  mine !  How  I  have  loved 
you! — how  I  shall  always  love  you!" 

A  slow  step  behind  her  interrupted  her  medita- 
tions— and  she  looked  around  with  a  smile  as  timid 
as  it  was  tender.  There  was  her  "Dad" — the  same 
as  ever, — yet  now  to  her  mind  so  far  removed  from 


96  INNOCENT 

her  that  she  hesitated  a  moment  before  giving  him 
her  customary  good-morning  greeting.  A  pained 
contraction  of  his  brow  showed  her  that  he  felt  this 
little  difference,  and  she  hastened  to  make  instant 
amends. 

"Dear  Dad!"  she  said,  softly, — and  she  put  her 
soft  arms  about  him  and  kissed  his  cheek — "How 
are  you  this  morning?  Did  you  sleep  well?" 

He  took  her  arms  from  his  shoulders,  and  held  her 
for  a  moment,  looking  at  her  scrutinisingly  from 
under  his  shaggy  brows. 

"I  did  not  sleep  at  all,"  he  answered  her — "I  lay 
broad  awake,  thinking  of  you.  Thinking  of  you, 
my  little  innocent,  fatherless,  motherless  lamb! 
And  you,  child! — you  did  not  sleep  so  well  as  you 
should  have  done,  talking  with  Robin  half  the  night 
out  of  window!" 

She  coloured  deeply.  He  smiled  and  pinched  her 
crimsoning  cheek,  apparently  well  pleased. 

"No  harm,  no  harm!"  he  said — "Just  two  young 
doves  cooing  among  the  leaves  at  mating  time! 
Robin  has  told  me  all  about  it.  Now  listen,  child! 
— I'm  away  to-day  to  the  market  town — there's 
seed  to  buy  and  crops  to  sell — I'll  take  Ned  Landon 

with  me "  he  paused,  and  an  odd  expression  of 

sternness  and  resolve  clouded  his  features — "Yes! — 
I'll  take  Ned  Landon  with  me — he's  shrewd  enough 
when  he's  sober — and  he's  cunning  enough,  too,  for 
that  matter! — yes,  I'll  take  him  with  me.  We'll  be 
off  in  the  dog-cart  as  soon  as  breakfast's  done.  My 
tune's  getting  short,  but  I'll  attend  to  my  own  busi- 
ness as  long  as  I  can — I'll  look  after  Briar  Farm  till 
I  die — and  I'll  die  in  harness.  There's  plenty  of 
work  to  do  yet — plenty  of  work;  and  while  I'm 
away  you  can  settle  up  things " 

Here  he  broke  off,  and  his  eyes  grew  fixed  in  a 
sudden  vacant  stare.  Innocent,  frightened  at  his 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     97 

unnatural  look,  laid  her  hand  caressingly  on  his 
arm. 

"Yes,  dear  Dad!"  she  said,  soothingly — "What  is 
it  you  wish  me  to  do?" 

The  stare  faded  from  his  eyeballs,  and  his  face 
softened. 

"Settle  up  things,"  he  repeated,  slowly,  and  with 
emphasis — "Settle  up  things  with  Robin.  No  more 
beating  about  the  bush!  You  talked  to  him  long 
enough  out  of  window  last  night,  and  mind  you! — 
somebody  was  listening!  That  means  mischief!  / 
don't  blame  you,  poor  wilding! — but  remember, 
somebody  was  listening!  Now  think  of  that  and  of 
your  good  name,  child ! — settle  with  Robin  and  we'll 
have  the  banns  put  up  next  Sunday." 

While  he  thus  spoke  the  warm  rose  of  her  cheeks 
faded  to  an  extreme  pallor, — her  very  lips  grew 
white  and  set.  Her  hurrying  thoughts  clamoured 
for  utterance, — she  could  have  expressed  in  pas- 
sionate terms  her  own  bitter  sense  of  wrong  and  un- 
merited shame,  but  pity  for  the  old  man's  worn  and 
haggard  look  of  pain  held  her  silent.  She  saw  and 
felt  that  he  was  not  strong  enough  to  bear  any  argu- 
ment or  opposition  in  his  present  mood,  so  she  made 
no  sort  of  reply,  not  even  by  a  look  or  a  smile. 
Quietly  she  went  to  the  breakfast  table,  and  busied 
herself  in  preparing  his  morning  meal.  He  followed 
her  and  sat  heavily  down  in  his  usual  chair,  watch- 
ing her  furtively  as  she  poured  out  the  tea. 

"Such  little  white  hands,  aren't  they?"  he  said, 
coaxingly,  touching  her  small  fingers  when  she  gave 
him  his  cup — "Eh,  wilding?  The  prettiest  lily  flow- 
ers I  ever  saw!  And  one  of  them  will  look  all  the 
prettier  for  a  gold  wedding-ring  upon  it!  Ay,  ay! 
We'll  have  the  banns  put  up  on  Sunday." 

Still  she  did  not  speak;  once  she  turned  away 
her  head  to  hide  the  tears  that  involuntarily  rose  to 


98  INNOCENT 

her  eyes.  Old  Hugo,  meanwhile,  began  to  eat  his 
breakfast  with  the  nervous  haste  of  a  man  who 
takes  his  food  more  out  of  custom  than  necessity. 
Presently  he  became  irritated  at  her  continued 
silence. 

"You  heard  what  I  said,  didn't  you?"  he  de- 
manded— "And  you  understood?" 

She  looked  full  at  him  with  sorrowful,  earnest 
eyes. 

"Yes,  Dad.    I  heard.    And  I  understood." 

He  nodded  and  smiled,  and  appeared  to  take  it 
for  granted  that  she  had  received  an  order  which  it 
was  her  bounden  duty  to  obey.  The  sun  shone 
brilliantly  in  upon  the  beautiful  old  room,  and 
through  the  open  window  came  a  pleasant  murmur- 
ing of  bees  among  the  mignonette,  and  the  whistle 
of  a  thrush  in  an  elm-tree  sounded  with  clear  and 
cheerful  persistence.  Hugo  Jocelyn  looked  at  the 
fair  view  of  the  flowering  garden  and  drew  his 
breath  hard  in  a  quick  sigh. 

"It's  a  fine  day,"  he  said — "and  it's  a  fine  world! 
Ay,  that  it  is!  I'm  not  sure  there's  a  better  any- 
where! And  it's  a  bit  difficult  to  think  of  going 
down  for  ever  into  the  dark  and  the  cold,  away 
from  the  sunshine  and  the  sky — but  it's  got  to  be 
done!" — here  he  clenched  his  fist  and  brought  it 
down  on  the  table  with  a  defiant  blow — "It's  got  to 
be  done,  and  I've  got  to  do  it!  But  not  yet — not 
quite  yet! — I've  plenty  of  time  and  chance  to  stop 
mischief!" 

He  rose,  and  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height 
looked  for  the  moment  strong  and  resolute.  Taking 
one  or  two  slow  turns  up  and  down  the  room,  he 
suddenly  stopped  in  front  of  Innocent. 

"We  shall  be  away  all  day,"  he  said — "I  and  Ned 
Landon.  Do  you  hear?" 

There  was  something  not  quite  natural  in  the 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT  99 

tone  of  his  voice,  and  she  glanced  up  at  him  in  a 
little  surprise. 

"Well,  what  are  you  wondering  at?"  he  de- 
manded, a  trifle  testily — "You  need  not  open  your 
eyes  at  me  like  that!" 

She  smiled  faintly. 

"Did  I  open  my  eyes,  Dad?"  she  said — "I  did  not 
mean  to  be  curious.  I  only  thought " 

>"You  only  thought  what?"  he  asked,  with  sudden 
'heat— "What  did  you  think?" 

"Oh,  just  about  your  being  away  all  day  in  the 
town — you  will  be  so  tired " 

"Tired?  Not  I! — not  when  there's  work  to  do 
and  business  to  settle!"  He  rubbed  his  hands  to- 
gether with  a  kind  of  energetic  expectancy.  "Work 
to  do  and  business  to  settle!"  he  repeated — "Yes, 
little  girl!  There's  not  much  time  before  me,  and  I 
must  leave  everything  in  good  order  for  you  and 
Robin." 

She  dropped  her  head,  and  the  expression  of  her 
face  was  hidden  from  him. 

'You  and  Robin!"  he  said,  again.  "Ay,  ay!  Briar 
Farm  will  be  hi  the  best  of  care  when  I'm  dead,  and 
it'll  thrive  well  with  young  love  and  hope  to  keep  it 
going!"  He  came  up  to  her  and  took  one  of  her 
little  hands  in  his  own.  "There,  there!"  he  went  on, 
patting  it  gently — "We'll  think  no  more  of  trouble 
and  folly  and  mistakes  in  life;  it'll  be  all  joy  and 
peace  for  you,  child!  Take  God's  good  blessing  of 
an  honest  lad's  love  and  be  happy  with  it!  And 
when  I  come  home  to-night," — he  paused  and  ap- 
peared to  think  for  a  moment — "yes! — when  I 
come  home,  let  me  hear  that  it's  all  clear  and 
straight  between  you — and  we'll  have  the  banns  put 
up  on  Sunday!" 

She  said  not  a  word  in  answer.  Her  hand  slid 
passively  from  his  hold, — and  she  never  looked  up. 


100  INNOCENT 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment — then  walked  towards 
the  door. 

"You'll  have  all  the  day  to  yourself  with  Robin," 
he  added,  glancing  back  at  her — "There'll  be  no 
spies  about  the  place,  and  no  one  listening,  as  there 
was  last  night!" 

She  sprang  up  from  her  chair,  moved  at  last  by 
an  impulse  of  indignation. 

"Who  was  it?"  she  asked — "I  said  nothing  wrong 
— and  I  do  not  care! — but  who  was  it?" 

A  curious  strained  look  came  into  old  Hugo's  eyes 
as  he  answered — 

"Ned  Landon." 

She  looked  amazed, — then  scared. 

"Ned  Landon?" 

"Ay!  Ned  Landon.  He  hasn't  the  sweetest  of 
tempers  and  he  isn't  always  sober.  He's  a  bit  in  the 
way  sometimes, — ay,  ay! — a  bit  in  the  way!  But 
he's  a  good  farm  hand  for  all  that, — and  his  word 
stands  for  something!  I'd  rather  he  hadn't  heard 
you  and  Robin  talking  last  night — but  what's  done 
is  done,  and  it's  a  mischief  easy  mended " 

"Why,  what  mischief  can  there  be?"  the  girl  de- 
manded, her  colour  coming  and  going  quickly — 
"And  why  should  he  have  listened?  It's  a  mean 
trick  to  spy  upon  others!" 

He  smiled  indulgently. 

"Of  course  it's  a  mean  trick,  child! — but  there's 
a  good  many  men — and  women  too — who  are  just 
made  up  of  mean  tricks  and  nothing  more.  They 
spend  their  lives  in  spying  upon  their  neighbours 
and  interfering  in  everybody's  business.  You'd  soon 
find  that  out,  my  girl,  if  you  lived  in  the  big  world 
that  lies  outside  Briar  Farm!  Ay! — and  that  re- 
minds me "  Here  he  came  from  the  door  back 

into  the  room  again,  and  going  to  a  quaint  old  up- 
right oaken  press  that  stood  in  one  corner,  he  un- 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     101 

locked  it  and  took  out  a  roll  of  bank-notes.  These 
he  counted  carefully  over  to  himself,  and  folding 
them  up  put  them  away  in  his  breast  pocket.  "Now 
I'm  ready ! "  he  said — "Ready  for  all  I've  got  to  do ! 
Good-bye,  my  wilding!"  He  approached  her,  and 
lifting  her  small  face  between  his  hands,  kissed  it 
tenderly.  "Bless  thee!  No  child  of  my  own  could 
be  dearer  than  thou  art!  All  I  want  now  is  to  leave 
thee  in  safe  and  gentle  keeping  when  I  die.  Think 
of  this  and  be  good  to  Robin ! " 

She  trembled  under  his  caress,  and  her  heart  was 
full  of  speechless  sorrow.  She  longed  to  yield  to  his 
wishes, — she  knew  that  if  she  did  so  she  would  give 
him  happiness  and  greater  resignation  to  the  death 
which  confronted  him;  and  she  also  knew  that  if 
she  could  make  up  her  mind  to  marry  Robin  Clif- 
ford she  would  have  the  best  and  the  tenderest  of 
husbands.  And  Briar  Farm, — the  beloved  old  home 
— would  be  hers ! — her  very  own !  Her  children  would 
inherit  it  and  play  about  the  fair  and  fruitful  fields 
as  she  had  done — they,  too,  could  be  taught  to  love 
the  memory  of  the  old  knight,  the  Sieur  Ainadis  de 
Jocelin — ah! — but  surely  it  was  the  spirit  of  the 
Sieur  Amadis  himself  that  held  her  back  and  pre- 
vented her  from  doing  his  name  and  memory  griev- 
ous wrong!  She  was  not  of  his  blood  or  race — she 
was  nameless  and  illegitimate, — no  good  could  come 
of  her  engrafting  herself  like  a  weed  upon  a  branch 
of  the  old  noble  stock — the  farm  would  cease  to 
prosper. 

So  she  thought  and  so  she  felt,  in  her  dreamy 
imaginative  way,  and  though  she  allowed  old  Hugo 
to  leave  her  without  vexing  him  by  any  decided 
opposition  to  his  plans,  she  was  more  than  ever 
firmly  resolved  to  abide  by  her  own  interior  sense 
of  what  was  right  and  fitting.  She  heard  the  wheels 
of  the  dog-cart  grating  the  gravel  outside  the  garden 


102  INNOCENT 

gate,  and  an  affectionate  impulse  moved  her  to  go 
and  see  her  "Dad"  off.  As  she  made  her  appearance 
under  the  rose-covered  porch  of  the  farm-house 
door,  she  perceived  Landon,  who  at  once  pulled  off 
his  cap  with  an  elaborate  and  exaggerated  show  of 
respect. 

"Good-morning,  Miss  Jocelyn!" 

He  emphasized  the  surname  with  a  touch  of 
malice.  She  coloured,  but  replied  "Good-morning" 
with  a  sweet  composure.  He  eyed  her  askance,  but 
had  no  opportunity  for  more  words,  as  old  Hugo 
just  then  clambered  up  into  the  dog-cart,  and  took 
the  reins  of  the  rather  skittish  young  mare  which 
was  harnessed  to  it. 

"Come  on,  Landon!"  he  shouted,  impatiently — 
"No  time  for  farewells!"  Then,  as  Landon  jumped 
up  beside  him,  he  smiled,  seeing  the  soft,  wistful 
face  of  the  girl  watching  him  from  beneath  a  canopy 
of  roses. 

"Take  care  of  the  house  while  I'm  gone!"  he 
called  to  her; — "You'll  find  Robin  in  the  or- 
chard." t 

He  laid  the  lightest  flick  of  the  whip  on  the  mare's 
ears,  and  she  trotted  rapidly  away. 

Innocent  stood  a  moment  gazing  after  the  retreat- 
ing vehicle  till  it  disappeared, — then  she  went  slowly 
into  the  house.  Robin  was  in  the  orchard,  was  he? 
Well! — he  had  plenty  of  work  to  do  there,  and  she 
would  not  disturb  him.  She  turned  away  from  the 
sunshine  and  flowers  and  made  her  way  upstairs  to 
her  own  room.  How  quiet  and  reposeful  it  looked! 
It  was  a  beloved  shrine,  full  of  sweet  memories  and 
dreams, — there  would  never  be  any  room  like  it  in 
the  world  for  her,  she  well  knew.  Listlessly  she  sat 
down  at  the  table,  and  turned  over  the  pages  of  an 
old  book  she  had  been  reading,  but  her  eyes  were  not 
upon  it. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     103 

"I  wonder!"  she  said,  half  aloud — then  paused. 

The  thought  in  her  mind  was  too  daring  for  utter- 
ance. She  was  picturing  the  possibility  of  going 
quietly  away  from  Briar  Farm  all  alone,  and  trying 
to  make  a  name  and  career  for  herself  through  the 
one  natural  gift  she  fancied  she  might  possess,  a 
gift  which  nowadays  is  considered  almost  as  com- 
mon as  it  was  once  admired  and  rare.  To  be  a  poet 
and  romancist, — a  weaver  of  wonderful  thoughts 
into  musical  language, — this  seemed  to  her  the  high- 
est of  all  attainment;  the  proudest  emperor  of  the 
most  powerful  nation  on  earth  was,  to  her  mind,  far 
less  than  Shakespeare, — and  inferior  to  the  simplest 
French  lyrist  of  old  tune  that  ever  wrote  a  "chanson 
d'amour."  But  the. doubt  in  her  mind  was  whether 
she,  personally,  had  any  thoughts  worth  expressing, 
— any  ideas  which  the  world  might  be  the  happier 
or  the  better  for  knowing  and  sharing?  She  drew  a 
long  breath, — the  warm  colour  flushed  her  cheeks 
and  then  faded,  leaving  her  very  pale, — the  whole 
outlook  of  her  life  was  so  barren  of  hope  or  promise 
that  she  dared  not  indulge  in  any  dream  of  brighter 
days.  On  the  face  of  it,  there  seemed  no  possible 
chance  of  leaving  Briar  Farm  without  some  outside 
assistance — she  had  no  money,  and  no  means  of  ob- 
taining any.  Then, — even  supposing  she  could  get 
to  London,  she  knew  no  one  there, — she  had  no 
friends.  Sighing  wearily,  she  opened  a  deep  drawer 
in  the  table  at  which  she  sat,  and  took  out  a  manu- 
script— every  page  of  it  so  neatly  written  as  to  be 
almost  like  copper-plate — and  set  herself  to  reading 
it  steadily.  There  were  enough  written  sheets  to 
make  a  good-sized  printed  volume — and  she  read  on 
for  more  than  an  hour.  When  she  lifted  her  eyes  at 
last  they  were  eager  and  luminous. 

"Perhaps,"  she  half  whispered — "perhaps  there 
is  something  in  it  after  all! — something  just  a  little 


104  INNOCENT 

new  and  out  of  the  ordinary — but — how  shall  I  ever 
know!" 

Putting  the  manuscript  by  with  a  lingering  care, 
she  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  The  peace- 
ful scene  was  dear  and  familiar — and  she  already 
felt  a  premonition  of  the  pain  she  would  have  to  en- 
dure in  leaving  so  sweet  and  safe  a  home.  Her 
thoughts  gradually  recurred  to  the  old  trouble — 
Robin,  and  Robin's  love  for  her, — Robin,  who,  if 
she  married  him,  would  spend  his  life  gladly  in  the 
effort  to  make  her  happy, — where  in  the  wide  world 
would  she  find  a  better,  truer-hearted  man?  And 
yet — a  curious  reluctance  had  held  her  back  from 
him,  even  when  she  had  believed  herself  to  be  the 
actual  daughter  of  Hugo  Jocelyn, — and  now — now, 
when  she  knew  she  was  nothing  but  a  stray  found- 
ling, deserted  by  her  own  parents  and  left  to  the 
care  of  strangers,  she  considered  it  would  be  noth- 
ing short  of  shame  and  disgrace  to  him,  were  she  to 
become  his  wife. 

"I  can  always  be  his  friend,"  she  said  to  herself — 
"And  if  I  once  make  him  understand  clearly  how 
much  better  it  is  for  us  to  be  like  brother  and  sister, 
he  will  see  things  in  the  right  way.  And  when  he 
marries  I  am  sure  to  be  fond  of  his  wife  and  children 
— and — and — it  will  be  ever  so  much  happier  for  us 
all!  I'll  go  and  talk  to  him  now." 

She  ran  downstairs  and  out  across  the  garden,  and 
presently  made  a  sudden  appearance  in  the  orchard 
— a  little  vision  of  white  among  the  russet-coloured 
trees  with  their  burden  of  reddening  apples.  Robin 
was  there  alone — he  was  busied  in  putting  up  a 
sturdy  prop  under  one  of  the  longer  branches  of  a 
tree  heavily  laden  with  fruit.  He  saw  her  and 
smiled — but  went  on  with  his  work. 

"Are  you  very  busy?"  she  asked,  approaching  him 
almost  timidly. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     105 

"Just  now,  yes !  In  a  moment,  no !  We  shall  lose 
this  big  bough  in  the  next  high  wind  if  I  don't  take 
care." 

She  waited — watching  the  strength  and  dexterity 
of  his  hands  and  arms,  and  the  movements  of  his 
light  muscular  figure.  In  a  little  while  he  had  fin- 
ished all  he  had  to  do — and  turning  to  her  said, 
laughingly— 

"Now  I  am  at  your  service!  You  look  very  seri- 
ous!— grave  as  a  little  judge,  and  quite  reproachful! 
What  have  I  done? — or  what  has  anybody  done  that 
you  should  almost  frown  at  me  on  this  bright  sun- 
shiny morning?" 

She  smiled  in  response  to  his  gay,  questioning 
look. 

"I'm  sorry  I  have  such  a  depressing  aspect,"  she 
said — "I  don't  feel  very  happy,  and  I  suppose  my 
face  shows  it." 

He  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  two,  watching  her 
with  a  grave  tenderness  in  his  eyes. 

By  and  by  he  spoke,  gently — 

"Come  and  stroll  about  a  bit  with  me  through  the 
orchard, — it  will  cheer  you  to  see  the  apples  hang- 
ing in  such  rosy  clusters  among  the  grey-green 
leaves.  Nothing  prettier  in  all  the  world,  I  think! — 
and  they  are  just  ripening  enough  to  be  fragrant. 
Come,  dear!  Let  us  talk  our  troubles  out!" 

She  walked  by  his  side,  mutely — and  they  moved 
slowly  together  under  the  warm  scented  boughs, 
through  which  the  sunlight  fell  in  broad  streams  of 
gold,  making  the  interlacing  shadows  darker  by  con- 
trast. There  was  a  painful  throbbing  in  her  throat, 
— the  tension  of  struggling  tears  which  strove  for  an 
outlet, — but  gradually  the  sweet  influences  of  the 
air  and  sunshine  did  good  work  in  calming  her 
nerves,  and  she  was  quite  composed  when  Robin 
spoke  again. 


106  INNOCENT 

"You  see,  dear,  I  know  quite  well  what  is  worry- 
ing you.  I'm  worried  myself — and  I'd  better  tell 
you  all  about  it.  Last  night "  he  paused. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  quickly. 

"Last  night?— Well?" 

"Well — Ned  Landon  was  in  hiding  in  the  bushes 
under  your  window — and  he  must  have  been  there 
all  the  time  we  were  talking  together.  How  or  why 
he  came  there  I  cannot  imagine.  But  he  heard  a 
good  deal — and  when  you  shut  your  window  he  was 
waiting  for  me.  Directly  I  got  down  he  pounced 
on  me  like  a  tramp-thief,  and — now  there! — don't 
look  so  frightened! — he  said  something  that  I 
couldn't  stand,  so  we  had  a  jolly  good  fight.  He 
got  the  worst  of  it,  I  can  tell  you!  He's  stiff  and 
unfit  to  work  to-day — that's  why  Uncle  Hugo  has 
taken  him  to  the  town.  I  told  the  whole  story  to 
Uncle  Hugo  this  morning — and  he  says  I  did  quite 
right.  But  it's  a  bore  to  have  to  go  on  'bossing' 
Laadon — he  bears  me  a  grudge,  of  course — and  I 
foresee  it  will  be  difficult  to  manage  him.  He  can 
hardly  be  dismissed — the  other  hands  would  want 
to  know  why ;  no  man  has  ever  been  dismissed  from 
Briar  Farm  without  good  and  fully  explained  rea- 
sons. This  time  no  reasons  could  be  given,  be- 
cause your  name  might  come  in,  and  I  won't  have 
that " 

"Oh,  Robin,  it's  all  my  fault!"  she  exclaimed. 
"If  you  would  only  let  me  go  away!  Help  me — do 
help  me  to  go  away!" 

He  stared  at  her,  amazed. 

"Go  away!"  he  echoed — "You!  Why,  Innocent, 
how  can  you  think  of  such  a  thing!  You  are  the 
very  life  and  soul  of  the  place — how  can  you  talk 
of  going  away!  No,  no! — not  unless" — here  he 
drew  nearer  and  looked  at  her  steadily  and  tenderly 
in  the  eyes — "not  unless  you  will  let  me  take  you 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT      107 

away! — just  for  a  little  while! — as  a  bridegroom 
takes  a  bride — on  a  honeymon  of  love  and  sunshine 
and  roses " 

He  stopped,  deterred  by  her  look  of  sadness. 

"Dear  Robin/'  she  said,  very  gently — "would  you 
marry  a  girl  who  cannot  love  you  as  a  wife  should 
love?  Won't  you  understand  that  if  I  could  and  did 
love  you  I  should  be  happier  than  I  am? — though 
now,  even  if  I  loved  you  with  all  my  heart,  I  would 
not  marry  you.  How  could  I?  I  am  nothing — I 
have  no  name — no  family — and  can  you  think  that 
I  would  bring  shame  upon  you?  No,  Robin! — 
never !  I  know  what  your  Uncle  Hugo  wishes — and 
oh! — if  I  could  only  make  him  happy  I  would  do  it! 
— but  I  cannot — it  would  be  wrong  of  me — and  you 
would  regret  it " 

"I  should  never  regret  it,"  he  interrupted  her, 
quickly.  "If  you  would  be  my  wife,  Innocent,  I 
should  be  the  proudest,  gladdest  man  alive!  Ah, 
dear! — do  put  all  your  fancies  aside  and  try  to4 
realise  what  good  you  would  be  doing  to  the  old  man 
if  he  felt  quite  certain  that  you  would  be  the  little 
mistress  of  the  old  farm  he  loves  so  much — I  will 
not  speak  of  myself — you  do  not  care  for  me! — but 
for  him " 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  sudden  light  in  her 
eyes. 

"Could  we  not  pretend?"  she  asked. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,  pretend  that  we're  engaged — just  to  satisfy 
him.  Couldn't  you  make  things  easy  for  me  that 
way?" 

"I  don't  quite  understand,"  he  said,  with  a  puzzled 
air — "How  would  it  make  things  easy?" 

"Why,  don't  you  see?"  and  she  spoke  with  hur- 
ried eagerness — "When  he  comes  home  to-night  let 


108  INNOCENT 

him  think  it's  all  right — and  then — then  I'll  run 
away  by  myself — and  it  will  be  my  fault " 

"Innocent!  What  are  you  talking  about?" — and 
he  flushed  with  vexation.  "My  dear  girl,  if  you  dis- 
like me  so  much  that  you  would  rather  run  away 
than  marry  me,  I  won't  say  another  word  about  it. 
I'll  manage  to  smooth  things  over  with  my  uncle  for 
the  present — just  to  prevent  his  fretting  himself — 
and  you  shall  not  be  worried " 

"You  must  not  be  worried  either,"  she  said.  "You 
will  not  understand,  and  you  do  not  think! — but 
just  suppose  it  possible  that,  after  all,  my  own 
parents  did  remember  me  at  last  and  came  to  look 
after  me — and  that  they  were  perhaps  dreadful 
wicked  people " 

Robin  smiled. 

"The  man  who  brought  you  here  was  a  gentle- 
man," he  said — "Uncle  Hugo  told  me  so  this  morn- 
ing, and  said  he  was  the  finest-looking  man  he  had 
ever  seen." 

Innocent  was  silent  a  moment. 

"You  think  he  was  a  'gentleman'  to  desert  his  own 
child?"  she  asked. 

Robin  hesitated. 

"Dear,  you  don't  know  the  world,"  he  said — 
"There  may  have  been  all  sorts  of  dangers  and  diffi- 
culties— anyhow,  /  don't  bear  him  any  grudge !  He 
gave  you  to  Briar  Farm!" 

She  sighed,  and  made  no  response.  Inadvertently 
they  had  walked  beyond  the  orchard  and  were  now 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  little  thicket  where  the  tomb 
of  the  Sieur  Amadis  de  Jocelin  glimmered  pallidly 
through  the  shadow  of  the  leaves.  Innocent  quick- 
ened her  steps. 

"Come!"  she  said. 

He  followed  her  reluctantly.  Almost  he  hated 
the  old  stone  knight  which  served  her  as  a  subject 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     109 

for  so  many  fancies  and  feelings,  and  when  she 
beckoned  him  to  the  spot  where  she  stood  beside  the 
recumbent  effigy,  he  showed  a  certain  irritation  of 
manner  which  did  not  escape  her. 

"You  are  cross  with  him!"  she  said,  reproachfully. 
"You  must  not  be  so.  He  is  the  founder  of  your 
family- 

"And  the  finish  of  it,  I  suppose!"  he  answered, 
abruptly.  "He  stands  between  us  two,  Innocent! — 
a  cold  stone  creature  with  no  heart — and  you  prefer 
him  to  me!  Oh,  the  folly  of  it  all!  How  can  you 
be  so  cruel!" 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully — almost  her  resolu- 
tion failed  her.  He  saw  her  momentary  hesitation 
and  came  close  up  to  her. 

"You  do  not  know  what  love  is!"  he  said,  catching 
her  hand  in  his  own — "Innocent,  you  do  not  know ! 
If  you  did! — if  I  might  teach  you !" 

She  drew  her  hand  away  very  quickly  and  de- 
cidedly. 

"Love  does  not  want  teaching,"  she  said — "it 
comes — when  it  will,  and  where  it  will!  It  has  not 
come  to  me,  and  you  cannot  force  it,  Robin!  If  I 
were  your  wife — your  wife  without  any  wife's  love 
for  you — I  should  grow  to  hate  Briar  Farm! — yes,  I 
should! — I  should  pine  and  die  in  the  very  place 
where  I  have  been  so  happy! — and  I  should  feel 
that  he" — here  she  pointed  to  the  sculptured  Sieur 
Amadis — "would  almost  rise  from  this  tomb  and 
curse  me!" 

She  spoke  with  sudden,  almost  dramatic  vehe- 
mence, and  he  gazed  at  her  in  mute  amazement. 
Her  eyes  flashed,  and  her  face  was  lit  up  by  a  glow  of 
inspiration  and  resolve. 

"You  take  me  just  for  the  ordinary  sort  of  girl," 
she  went  on — "A  girl  to  caress  and  fondle  and  marry 
and  make  the  mother  of  your  children, — now  for 


110  INNOCENT 

that  you  might  choose  among  the  girls  about  here, 
any  of  whom  would  be  glad  to  have  you  for  a  hus- 
band. But,  Robin,  do  you  think  I  am  really  fit  for 
that  sort  of  life  always? — can't  you  believe  in  any- 
thing else  but  marriage  for  a  woman?" 

As  she  thus  spoke,  she  unconsciously  created  a 
new  impression  on  his  mind, — a  veil  seemed  to  be 
suddenly  lifted,  and  he  saw  her  as  he  had  never  be- 
fore seen  her — a  creature  removed,  isolated  and  un- 
attainable through  the  force  of  some  inceptive  in- 
tellectual quality  which  he  had  not  previously  sus- 
pected. He  answered  her,  very  gently — 

"Dear,  I  cannot  believe  in  anything  else  but  love 
for  a  woman,"  he  said — "She  was  created  and  in- 
tended for  love,  and  without  love  she  must  surely 
be  unhappy." 

"Love! — ah  yes!"  she  responded,  quickly — "But 
marriage  is  not  love!" 

His  brows  contracted. 

"You  must  not  speak  in  that  way,  Innocent,"  he 
said,  seriously — "It  is  wrong — people  would  misun- 
derstand you " 

Her  eyes  lightened,  and  she  smiled. 

"Yes! — I'm  sure  'people*  would!"  she  answered — 
"But  'people'  don't  matter — to  me.  It  is  truth  that 
matters, — truth, — and  love!" 

He  looked  at  her,  perplexed. 

"Why  should  you  think  marriage  is  not  love?"  he 
asked — "It  is  the  one  thing  all  lovers  wish  for — to 
be  married  and  to  live  together  always " 

"Oh,  they  wish  for  it,  yes,  poor  things!"  she  said, 
with  a  little  uplifting  of  her  brows — "And  when 
their  wishes  are  gratified,  they  often  wish  they  had 
not  wished!"  She  laughed.  "Robin,  this  talk  of 
ours  is  making  me  feel  quite  merry !  I  am  amused ! " 

"I  am  not!"  he  replied,  irritably — "You  are  much 
too  young  a  girl  to  think  these  thin| 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     111 

She  nodded,  gravely. 

"I  know!  And  I  ought  to  get  married  while 
young,  before  I  learn  too  many  of  'these  things/ '' 
she  said — "Isn't  that  so?  Don't  frown,  Robin! 
Look  at  the  Sieur  Amadis!  How  peacefully  he 
sleeps!  He  knew  all  about  love!" 

"Of  course  he  did!"  retorted  Robin — "He  was  a 
perfectly  sensible  man — he  married  and  had  six 
children." 

Innocent  nodded  again,  and  a  little  smile  made 
two  fascinating  dimples  in  her  soft  cheeks. 

"Yes!    But  he  said  good-bye  to  love  first!" 

He  looked  at  her  in  visible  annoyance. 

"How  can  you  tell? — what  do  you  know  about 
it?"  he  demanded. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  glimpses  of  blue  sky 
that  showed  in  deep  clear  purity  between  the  over- 
arching boughs, — a  shaft  of  sunlight  struck  on  her 
fair  hair  and  illumined  its  pale  brown  to  gold,  so 
that  for  a  moment  she  looked  like  the  picture  of  a 
young  rapt  saint,  lost  in  heavenly  musing. 

Then  a  smile,  wonderfully  sweet  and  provocative, 
parted  her  lips,  and  she  beckoned  him  to  a  grassy 
slope  beneath  one  of  the  oldest  trees,  where  little 
tufts  of  wild  thyme  grew  thickly,  filling  the  air  with 
fragrance. 

"Come  and  sit  beside  me  here,"  she  said — "We 
have  the  day  to  ourselves — Dad  said  so, — and  we 
can  talk  as  long  as  we  like.  You  ask  me  what  I 
know? — not  much  indeed!  But  I'll  tell  you  what 
the  Sieur  Amadis  has  told  me! — if  you  care  to  hear 
it!" 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  do,"  he  answered,  dubiously. 

She  laughed. 

"Oh,  Robin! — how  ungrateful  you  are!  You 
ought  to  be  so  pleased!  If  you  really  loved  me  as 
much  as  you  say,  the  mere  sound  of  my  voice  ought 


112  INNOCENT 

to  fill  you  with  ecstasy!  Yes,  really!  Come,  be 
good!"  And  she  sat  down  on  the  grass,  glancing 
up  at  him  invitingly.  He  flung  himself  beside  her, 
and  she  extended  her  little  white  hand  to  him  with  a 
pretty  condescension. 

"There! — you  may  hold  it!"  she  said,  as  he 
eagerly  clasped  it — "Yes,  you  may!  Now,  if  the 
Sieur  Amadis  had  been  allowed  to  hold  the  hand  of 
the  lady  he  loved  he  would  have  gone  mad  with1 
joy!" 

"Much  good  he'd  have  done  by  going  mad!" 
growled  Robin,  with  an  affectation  of  ill-humour — 
"I'd  rather  be  sane, — sane  and  normal." 

She  bent  her  smiling  eyes  upon  him. 

"Would  you?  Poor  Robin!  Well,  you  will  be — 
when  you  settle  down " 

"Settle  down?"  he  echoed— "How?  What  do  you 
mean?" 

"Why,  when  you  settle  down  with  a  wife,  and — 
shall  we  say  six  children?"  she  queried,  merrily — 
"Yes,  I  think  it  must  be  six!  Like  the  Sieur  Ama- 
dis! And  when  you  forget  that  you  ever  sat  with 
me  under  the  trees,  holding  my  hand — so!" 

The  lovely,  half-laughing  compassion  of  her  look 
nearly  upset  his  self-possession.  He  drew  closer  to 
her  side. 

"Innocent!"  he  exclaimed,  passionately — "if  you 
would  only  listen  to  reason " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  never  could!"  she  declared,  with  an  odd  little 
air  of  penitent  self-depreciation — "People  who  ask 
you  to  listen  to  reason  are  always  so  desperately 
dull!  Even  Priscilla! — when  she  asks  you  to  'listen 
to  reason/  she's  in  the  worst  of  tempers!  Besides, 
Robin,  dear,  we  shall  have  plenty  of  chances  to 
'listen  to  reason'  when  we  grow  older, — we're  both 
young  just  now,  and  a  little  folly  won't  hurt  us. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     113 

Have  patience  with  me! — I  want  to  tell  you  some 
quite  unreasonable — quite  abnormal  things  about 
love!  May  I?" 

"Yes — if  7  may  too!"  he  answered,  kissing  the 
hand  he  held,  with  lingering  tenderness. 

The  soft  colour  flew  over  her  cheeks, — she  smiled. 

"Poor  Robin!"  she  said — "You  deserve  to  be 
happy  and  you  will  be! — not  with  me,  but  with 
some  one  much  better,  and  ever  so  much  prettier! 
I  can  see  you  as  the  master  of  Briar  Farm — such  a 
sweet  home  for  you  and  your  wife,  and  all  your  little 
children  running  about  in  the  fields  among  the  but- 
tercups and  daisies — a  pretty  sight,  Robin ! — I  shall 
think  of  it  often  when — when  I  am  far  away!" 

He  was  about  to  utter  a  protest, — she  stopped 
him  by  a  gesture. 

"Hush!"  she  said. 

And  there  was  a  moment's  silence. 


CHAPTER  VI 

"WHEN  I  think  about  love,"  she  began  presently, 
in  a  soft  dreamy  voice — "I'm  quite  sure  that  very 
few  people  ever  really  feel  it  or  understand  it.  It 
must  be  the- rarest  thing  in  all  the  world!  This  poor 
Sieur  Amadis,  asleep  so  long  in  his  grave,  was  a  true 
lover, — and  I  will  tell  you  how  I  know  he  had  said 
good-bye  to  love  when  he  married.  All  those  books 
we  found  in  the  old  dower-chest,  that  day  when  we 
were  playing  about  together  as  children,  belonged 
to  him — some  are  his  own  compositions,  written  by 
his  own  hand, — the  others,  as  you  know,  are  printed 
books  which  must  have  been  difficult  to  get  in  his 
day,  and  are  now,  I  suppose,  quite  out  of  date  and 
almost  unknown.  I  have  read  them  all!. — my  head 
is  a  little  library  full  of  odd  volumes!  But  there  is 
one — a  manuscript  book — which  I  never  tire  of  read- 
ing,— it  is  a  sort  of  journal  in  which  the  Sieur  Ama- 
dis wrote  down  many  of  his  own  feelings — sometimes 
in  prose,  sometimes  in  verse — and  by  following  them 
carefully  and  piecing  them  together,  it  is  quite  easy 
to  find  out  his  sadness  and  secret— how  he  loved 
once  and  never  loved  again " 

"You  can't  tell  that,"  interrupted  Robin — "men 
often  say  they  can  only  love  once — but  they  love 
ever  so  many  times " 

She  smiled — and  her  eyes  showed  him  what  a  stu- 
pid blunder  he  had  made. 

"Do  they?"  she  queried,  softly — "I  am  so  glad, 
Robin !  For  you  will  find  it  easy  then  to  love  some- 
body else  instead  of  me!" 

114 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     115 

He  flushed,  vexedly. 

"I  didn't  mean  thak- — "  he  began. 

"No?  I  think  you  did! — but  of  course  if  you  had 
thought  twice  you  wouldn't  have  said  it!  It  was 
uttered  quite  truly  and  naturally,  Robin! — don't 
regret  it!  Only  I  want  to  explain  to  you  that  the 
Sieur  Amadis  was  not  like  that — he  loved  just  once 
— and  the  lady  he  loved  must  have  been  a  very 
beautiful  woman  who  had  plenty  of  admirers  and 
did  not  care  for  him  at  all.  All  he  writes  proves 
that.  He  is  always  grieved  to  the  heart  about  it. 
Still  he  loved  her — and  he  seems  glad  to  have  loved 
her,  though  it  was  all  no  use.  And  he  kept  a  little 
chronicle  of  his  dreams  and  fancies — all  that  he  felt 
and  thought  about, — it  is  beautifully  and  tenderly 
written  all  in  quaint  old  French.  I  had  some  trouble 
to  make  it  out — but  I  did  at  last — every  word — and 
when  he  made  up  his  mind  to  marry,  he  finished  the 
little  book  and  never  wrote  another  word  in  it. 
Shall  I  tell  you  what  were  the  last  lines  he  wrote?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  any  use,"  he  answered,  kissing 
again  the  hand  he  held — "I  don't  understand 
French.  I've  never  even  tried  to  learn  it." 

She  laughed. 

"I  know  you  haven't!  But  you've  missed  a  great 
deal,  Robin! — you  have  really!  When  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  find  out  all  the  Sieur  Amadis  had  writ- 
ten, I  got  Priscilla  to  buy  me  a  French  dictionary 
and  grammar  and  some  other  French  lesson-books 
besides — then  I  spelt  all  the  words  carefully  and 
looked  them  all  up  in  the  dictionary,  and  learned 
the  pronunciation  from  one  of  the  lesson-books — 
and  by-and-bye  it  got  quite  easy.  For  two  years  at 
least  it  was  dreadfully  hard  work — but  now — well! 
— I  think  I  could  almost  speak  French  if  I  had  the 
chance!" 

"I'm  sure  you  could!"  said  Robin,  looking  at  her, 


116  INNOCENT 

admiringly — "You're  a  clever  little  girl  and  could 
do  anything  you  wanted  to." 

Her  brows  contracted  a  little, — the  easy  lightness 
of  his  compliment  had  that  air  of  masculine  indiffer- 
ence which  is  more  provoking  to  an  intelligent 
woman  than  downright  contradiction.  The  smile 
lingered  in  her  eyes,  however, — a  smile  of  mingled 
amusement  and  compassion. 

"Well,  I  wanted  to  understand  the  writing  of  the 
Sieur  Amadis,"  she  went  on,  quietly — "and  when  I 
could  understand  them  I  translated  them.  So  I  can 
tell  you  the  last  words  he  wrote  in  his  journal — just 
before  he  married, — in  fact  on  the  very  eve  of  his 

marriage-day "  She  paused  abruptly,  and 

looked  for  a  moment  at  the  worn  and  battered  tomb 
of  the  old  knight,  green  with  moss  and  made  pic- 
turesque by  a  trailing  branch  of  wild  roses  that  had 
thrown  itself  across  the  stone  effigy  in  an  attempt  to 
reach  some  of  its  neighbours  on  the  opposite  side. 
Robin  followed  her  gaze  with  his  own,  and  for  a 
moment  was  more  than  usually  impressed  by  the 
calm,  almost  stern  dignity  of  the  recumbent  figure. 

"Go  on,"  he  said— "What  were  the  words?" 

"These" — and  Innocent  spoke  them  in  a  hushed 
voice,  with  sweet  reverence  and  feeling — "  'To- 
night I  pull  down  and  put  away  for  ever  the  golden 
banner  of  my  life's  ideal.  It  has  been  held  aloft  too 
long  in  the  sunshine  of  a  dream,  and  the  lily  broi- 
dered  on  its  web  is  but  a  withered  flower.  My  life 
is  no  longer  of  use  to  myself,  but  as  a  man  and  faith- 
ful knight  I  will  make  it  serve  another's  pleasure 
and  another's  good.  And  because  this  good  and  sim- 
ple girl  doth  truly  love  me,  though  her  love  was 
none  of  my  seeking,  I  will  give  her  her  heart's  de- 
sire, though  mine  own  heart's  desire  shall  never  be 
accomplished, — I  will  make  her  my  wife,  and  will 
be  to  her  a  true  and  loyal  husband,  so  that  she  may 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     117 

receive  from  me  all  she  craves  of  happiness  and 
peace.  For  though  I  fain  would  die  rather  than 
wed,  I  know  that  life  is  not  given  to  a  man  to  live 
selfishly,  nor  is  God  satisfied  to  have  it  wasted  by 
any  one  who  hath  sworn  to  be  His  knight  and  serv- 
ant. Therefore  even  so  let  it  be! — I  give  all  my 
unvalued  existence  to  her  who  doth  consider  it  val- 
uable, and  with  all  my  soul  I  pray  that  I  may  make 
so  gentle  and  trustful  a  creature  happy.  But  to 
Love — oh,  to  Love  a  long  farewell! — farewell  my 
dreams! — farewell  ambition! — farewell  the  glory  of 
the  vision  unattainable! — farewell  bright  splendour 
of  an  earthly  Paradise! — for  now  I  enter  that  prison 
which  shall  hold  me  fast  till  death  release  me !  Close, 
doors! — fasten,  locks! — be  patient  in  thy  silent  soli- 
tude, my  Soul!" 

Innocent's  voice  faltered  here — then  she  said — 
"That  is  the  end.  He  signed  it  'Amadis.' ' 

Robin  was  very  quiet  for  a  minute  or  two. 

"It's  pretty — very  pretty  and  touching — and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,"  he  said  at  last — -"but  it's  like 
some  old  sonnet  or  mediaeval  bit  of  romance.  No 
one  would  go  on  like  that  nowadays." 

Innocent  lifted  her  eyebrows,  quizzically. 

"Go  on  like  what?" 

He  moved  impatiently. 

"Oh,  about  being  patient  in  solitude  with  one's 
soul,  and  saying  farewell  to  love."  He  gave  a  short 
laugh.  "Innocent  dear,  I  wish  you  would  see  the 
world  as  it  really  is! — not  through  the  old-style 
spectacles  of  the  Sieur  Amadis!  In  his  day  people 
were  altogether  different  from  what  they  are  now." 

"I'm  sure  they  were!"  she  answered,  quietly — 
"But  love  is  the  same  to-day  as  it  was  then." 

He  considered  a  moment,  then  smiled. 

"No,  dear,  I'm  not  sure  that  it  is,"  he  said. 
"Those  knights  and  poets  and  curious  people  of  that 


118  INNOCENT 

kind  lived  in  a  sort  of  imaginary  ecstasy — they  ex- 
aggerated their  emotions  and  lived  at  the  top-height 
of  their  fancies.  We  in  our  time  are  much  more 
sane  and  level-headed.  And  it's  much  better  for  us 
in  the  long  run." 

She  made  no  reply.  Only  very  gently  she  with- 
drew her  hand  from  his. 

"I'm  not  a  knight  of  old,"  he  went  on,  turning 
his  handsome,  sunbrowned  face  towards  her, — "but 
I'm  sure  I  love  you  as  much  as  ever  the  Sieur 
Amadis  could  have  loved  his  unknown  lady.  So 
much  indeed  do  I  love  you  that  I  couldn't  write 
about  it  to  save  my  life! — though  I  did  write  verses 
at  Oxford  once — very  bad  ones!"  He  laughed. 
"But  I  can  do  one  thing  the  Sieur  Amadis  didn't  do 
— I  can  keep  faithful  to  my  Vision  of  the  glory  un- 
attainable'— and  if  I  don't  marry  you  I'll  marry  no- 
body— so  there!" 

She  looked  at  him  curiously  and  wistfully. 

"You  will  not  be  so  foolish,"  she  said — "You  will 
not  put  me  into  the  position  of  the  Sieur  Amadis, 
who  married  some  one  who  loved  him,  merely  out 
of  pity!" 

He  sprang  up  from  the  grass  beside  her. 

"No,  no!  I  won't  do  that,  Innocent!  I'm  not  a 
coward !  If  you  can't  love  me,  you  shall  not  marry 
me,  just  because  you  are  sorry  for  me!  That  would 
be  intolerable!  I  wouldn't  have  you  for  a  wife  at  all 
under  such  circumstances.  I  shall  be  perfectly 
happy  as  a  bachelor — perhaps  happier  than  if  I 
married." 

"And  what  about  Briar  Farm?"  she  asked. 

"Briar  Farm  can  get  on  as  best  it  may!"  he  re- 
plied, cheerily — "I'll  work  on  it  as  long  as  I  live 
and  hand  it  down  to  some  one  worthy  of  it,  never 
fear!  So  there,  Innocent! — be  happy,  and  don't 
worry  yourself!  Keep  to  your  old  knight  and  your 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT      119 

strange  fancies  about  him — you  may  be  right  in 
your  ideas  of  love,  or  you  may  be  wrong;  but  the 
great  point  with  me  is  that  you  should  be  happy — 
and  if  you  cannot  be  happy  in  my  way,  why  you 
must  just  be  happy  in  your  own!" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  new  interest,  as  he  stood 
upright,  facing  her  in  all  the  vigour  and  beauty  of 
his  young  manhood.  A  little  smile  crept  round  the 
corners  of  her  mouth. 

"You  are  really  a  very  handsome  boy!"  she  said 
— "Quite  a  picture  in  your  way !  Some  girl  will  be 
very  proud  of  you!" 

He  gave  a  movement  of  impatience. 

"I  must  go  back  to  the  orchard,"  he  said — 
"There's  plenty  to  do.  And  after  all,  work's  the 
finest  thing  in  the  world — quite  as  fine  as  love — per- 
haps finer!" 

A  faint  sense  of  compunction  moved  her  at  his 
words — she  was  conscious  of  a  lurking  admiration 
for  his  cool,  strong,  healthy  attitude  towards  life 
and  the  things  of  life.  And  yet  she  was  resentful 
that  he  should  be  capable  of  considering  anything 
in  the  world  "finer"  than  love.  Work?  What 
work?  Pruning  trees  and  gathering  apples?  Surely 
there  were  greater  ambitions  than  these?  She 
watched  him  thoughtfully  under  the  fringe  of  her 
long  eyelashes,  as  he  moved  off. 

"Going  to  the  orchard?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

She  smiled  a  little. 

"That's  right!" 

He  glanced  back  at  her.  Had  she  known  how 
bravely  he  restrained  himself  she  might  have  made 
as  much  a  hero  of  him  as  of  the  knight  Ainadis. 
For  he  was  wounded  to  the  heart — his  brightest 
hopes  were  frustrated,  and  at  the  very  instant  he 
walked  away  from  her  he  would  have  given  his  life 


120  INNOCENT 

to  have  held  her  for  a  moment  in  his  arms, — to  have 
kissed  her  lips,  and  whispered  to  her  the  pretty, 
caressing  love-nonsense  which  to  warm  and  tender 
hearts  is  the  sweetest  language  in  the  world.  And 
with  all  his  restrained  passion  he  was  irritated  with 
what,  from  a  man's  point  of  view,  he  considered 
folly  on  her  part, — he  felt  that  she  despised  his  love 
and  himself  for  no  other  reason  than  a  mere  ro- 
mantic idea,  bred  of  loneliness  and  too  much 'read- 
ing of  a  literature  alien  to  the  customs  and  manners 
of  the  immediate  tune,  and  an  uncomfortable 
premonition  of  fear  for  her  future  troubled  his 
mind. 

"Poor  little  girl!"  he  thoughtr-"She  does  not 
know  the  world! — and  when  she  does  come  to  know 
it — ah,  my  poor  Innocent! — I  would  rather  she 
never  knew!" 

Meanwhile  she,  left  to  herself,  was  not  without  a 
certain  feeling  of  regret.  She  was  not  sure  of  her 
own  mind — and  she  had  no  control  over  her  own 
fancies.  Every  now  and  then  a  wave  of  conviction 
came  over  her  that  after  all  tender-hearted  old  Pris- 
cilla  might  be  right — that  it  would  be  best  to  marry 
Robin  and  help  him  to  hold  and  keep  Briar  Farm 
as  it  had  ever  been  kept  and  held  since  the  days  of 
the  Sieur  Amadis.  Perhaps,  had  she  never  heard 
the  story  of  her  actual  condition,  as  told  her  by 
Farmer  Jocelyn  on  the  previous  night,  she  might 
have  consented  to  what  seemed  so  easy  and  pleasant 
a  lot  in  life;  but  now  it  seemed  to  her  more  than 
impossible.  She  no  longer  had  any  link  with  the 
far-away  ancestor  who  had  served  her  so  long  as  a 
sort  of  ideal — she  was  a  mere  foundling  without  any 
name  save  the  unbaptised  appellation  of  Innocent. 
And  she  regarded  herself  as  a  sort  of  castaway. 

She  went  into  the  house  soon  after  Robin  had  left 
her,  and  busied  herself  with  sorting  the  linen  and 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     121 

looking  over  what  had  to  be  mended.  "For  when  I 
go,"  she  said  to  herself,  "they  must  find  everything 
in  order."  She  dined  alone  with  Priscilla — Robin 
sent  word  that  he  was  too  busy  to  come  in.  She  was 
a  little  piqued  at  this — and  almost  cross  when  he 
sent  the  same  message  at  tea-time, — but  she  was 
proud  in  her  way  and  would  not  go  out  to  see  if  she 
could  persuade  him  to  leave  his  work  for  half-an- 
hour.  The  sun  was  slowly  declining  when  she  sud- 
denly put  down  her  sewing,  struck  by  a  thought 
which  had  not  previously  occurred  to  her — and  ran 
fleetly  across  the  garden  to  the  orchard,  where  she 
found  Robin  lying  on  his  back  under  the  trees  with 
closed  eyes.  He  opened  them,  hearing  the  light 
movement  of  her  feet  and  the  soft  flutter  of  her 
gown — but  he  did  not  rise.  She  stopped — looking 
at  him. 

"Were  you  asleep?" 

He  stretched  his  arms  above  his  head,  lazily. 

"I  believe  I  was!"  he  answered,  smiling. 

"And  you  wouldn't  come  in  to  tea!"  This  with 
a  touch  of  annoyance. 

"Oh  yes,  I  would,  if  I  had  wanted  tea,"  he  replied 
—"but  I  didn't  want  it." 

"Nor  my  company,  I  suppose,"  she  added,  with  a 
little  shrug  of  her  shoulders.  His  eyes  flashed  mis- 
chievously. 

"Oh,  I  daresay  that  had  something  to  do  with  it!" 
he  agreed. 

A  curious  vexation  fretted  her.  She  wished  he 
would  not  look  so  handsome — and — yes! — so  indif- 
ferent. An  impression  of  loneliness  and  desertion 
came  over  her — he,  Robin,  was  not  the  same  to  her 
now — so  she  fancied — no  doubt  he  had  been  think- 
ing hard  all  the  day  while  doing  his  work,  and  at 
last  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  wisest 
after  all  to  let  her  go  and  cease  to  care  for  her  as  he 


122  INNOCENT 

had  done.  A  little  throbbing  pulse  struggled  in  her 
throat — a  threat  of  rising  tears, — but  she  conquered 
the  emotion  and  spoke  in  a  voice  which,  though  it 
trembled,  was  sweet  and  gentle. 

"Robin,"  she  said — "don't  you  think — wouldn't 
it  be  better — perhaps " 

He  looked  up  at  her  wonderingly — she  seemed 
nervous  or  frightened. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked — "Anything  you  want  me 
to  do?" 

"Yes" — and  her  eyes  drooped — "but  I  hardly  like 
to  say  it.  You  see,  Dad  made  up  his  mind  this 
morning  that  we  were  to  settle  things  together — and 
hell  be  angry  and  disappointed " 

Robin  half-raised  himself  on  one  arm. 

"He'll  be  angry  and  disappointed  if  we  don't  settle 
it,  you  mean,"  he  said — "and  we  certainly  haven't 
settled  it.  Well?" 

A  faint  colour  flushed  her  face. 

"Couldn't  we  pretend  it's  all  right  for  the  mo- 
ment?" she  suggested — "Just  to  give  him  a  little 
peace  of  mind?" 

He  looked  at  her  steadily. 

"You  mean,  couldn't  we  deceive  him?" 

"Yes! — for  his  good!  He  has  deceived  me  all  my 
life, — I  suppose  for  my  good- — though  it  has  turned 
out  badly " 

"Has  it?    Why?" 

"It  has  left  me  nameless,"  she  answered, — "and 
friendless." 

A  sudden  rush  of  tears  blinded  her  eyes— «-she  put 
her  hands  over  them.  He  sprang  up  and,  taking 
hold  of  her  slender  wrists,  tried  to  draw  those  hands 
down.  He  succeeded  at  last,  and  looked  wistfully 
into  her  face,  quivering  with  restrained  grief. 

"Dear,  I  will  do  what  you  like!"  he  said.  "Tell 
me — what  is  your  wish?" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     123 

She  waited  a  moment,  till  she  had  controlled  her- 
self a  little. 

"I  thought" — she  said,  then — "that  we  might  tell 
Dad  just  for  to-night  that  we  are  engaged — it  would 
make  him  happy — and  perhaps  in  a  week  or  two 
we  might  get  up  a  quarrel  together  and  break  it 
off " 

Robin  smiled. 

"Dear  little  girl! — I'm  afraid  the  plan  wouldn't 
work !  He  wants  the  banns  put  up  on  Sunday — and 
this  is  Wednesday." 

Her  brows  knitted  perplexedly. 

"Something  can  be  managed  before  then,"  she 
said.  "Robin,  I  cannot  bear  to  disappoint  him! 
He's  old — and  he's  so  ill  too! — it  wouldn't  hurt  us 
for  one  night  to  say  we  are  engaged!" 

"All  right!" — and  Robin  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed  joyously — "I  don't  mind!  The  sensation 
of  even  imagining  I'm  engaged  to  you  is  quite  agree- 
able !  For  one  evening,  at  least,  I  can  assume  a  sort 
of  proprietorship  over  you!  Innocent!  I — I " 

He  looked  so  mirthful  and  mischievous  that  she 
smiled,  though  the  teardrops  still  sparkled  on  her 
lashes. 

"Well?  What  are  you  thinking  of  now?"  she 
asked. 

"I  think — I  really  think — under  the  circumstances 
I  ought  to  kiss  you!"  he  said — "Don't  you  feel  it 
would  be  right  and  proper?  Even  on  the  stage  the 
hero  and  heroine  act  a  kiss  when  they're  engaged!" 

She  met  his  laughing  glance  with  quiet  steadfast- 
ness. 

"I  cannot  act  a  kiss,"  she  said — "You  can,  if  you 
like!  I  don't  mind." 

"You  don't  mind?" 

"No." 

He  looked  from  right  to  left — the  apple-boughs, 


124  INNOCENT 

loaded  with  rosy  fruit,  were  intertwined  above  them 
like  a  canopy — the  sinking  sun  made  mellow  gold 
of  all  the  air,  and  touched  the  girl's  small  figure  with 
a  delicate  luminance— his  heart  beat,  and  for  a  sec- 
ond his  senses  swam  in  a  giddy  whirl  of  longing  and 
ecstasy — then  he  suddenly  pulled  himself  together. 

"Dear  Innocent,  I  wouldn't  kiss  you  for  the 
world!"  he  said,  gently — "It  would  be  taking  a 
mean  advantage  of  you.  I  only  spoke  in  fun. 
There! — dry  your  pretty  eyes! — you  sweet,  strange, 
romantic  little  soul!  You  shall  have  it  all  your  own 
way!" 

She  drew  a  long  breath  of  evident  relief. 

"Then  you'll  tell  your  uncle " 

"Anything  you  like!"  he  answered.  "By-the-bye, 
oughtn't  he  to  be  home  by  this  time?" 

"He  may  have  been  kept  by  some  business,"  she 
said — "He  won't  be  long  now.  You'll  say  we're  en- 
gaged?" 

"Yes." 

"And  perhaps" — went  on  Innocent — "you  might 
ask  him  not  to  have  the  banns  put  up  yet  as  we 
don't  want  it  known  quite  so  soon " 

"I'll  do  all  I  can,"  he  replied,  cheerily — "all  I  can 
to  keep  him  quiet,  and  to  make  you  happy!  There! 
I  can't  say  more!" 

Her  eyes  shone  upon  him  with  a  grateful  tender- 
ness. 

"You  are  very  good,  Robin!" 

He  laughed. 

"Good!  Not  I!  But  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  fret 
— if  I  had  my  way  you  should  never  know  a  mo- 
ment's trouble  that  I  could  keep  from  you.  But 
I  know  I'm  not  a  patch  on  your  old  stone  knight 
who  wrote  such  a  lot  about  his  'ideal' — and  yet 
went  and  married  a  country  wench  and  had  six 
children.  Don't  frown,  dear!  Nothing  will  make 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     125 

me  say  he  was  romantic!  Not  a  bit  of  it!  He 
wrote  a  lot  of  romantic  things,  of  course — but  he 
didn't  mean  half  of  them! — I'm  sure  he  didn't!" 

She  coloured  indignantly. 

"You  say  that,  because  you  know  nothing  about 
it,"  she  said — "You  have  not  read  his  writings." 

"No — and  I'm  not  sure  that  I  want  to,"  he  an- 
swered, gaily.  "Dear  Innocent,  you  must  remem- 
ber that  I  was  at  Oxford — my  dear  old  father  and 
mother  scraped  and  screwed  every  penny  they  could 
get  to  send  me  there — and  I  believe  I  acquitted  my- 
self pretty  well — but  one  of  the  best  things  I  learned 
was  the  general  uselessnese  and  vanity  of  the  fellows 
tkat  called  themselves  'literary.'  They  chiefly  went 
in  for  disparaging  and  despising  everyone  who  did 
not  agree  with  them  and  think  just  as  they  did. 
Mulish  prigs,  most  of  them!"  and  Robin  laughed 
his  gay  and  buoyant  laugh  once  more — "They  didn't 
know  that  I  was  all  the  time  comparing  them  with 
the  honest  type  of  farmer — the  man  who  lives  an 
outdoor  life  with  God's  air  blowing  upon  him,  and 
the  soil  turned  freshly  beneath  him! — I  love  books, 
too,  in  my  way,  but  I  love  Nature  better." 

"And  do  not  poets  help  you  to  understand  Na- 
ture?" asked  Innocent. 

"The  best  of  them  do — such  as  Shakespeare  and 
Keats  and  Tennyson, — but  they  were  of  the  past. 
The  modern  men  make  you  almost  despise  Nature, 
— more's  the  pity!  They  are  always  studying 
themselves,  and  analysing  themselves,  and  pity- 
ing themselves — now  7  always  say,  the  less  of 
one's  self  the  better,  in  order  to  understand  other 
people." 

Innocent's  eyes  regarded  him  with  quiet  admira- 
tion. 

"Yes,  you  are  a  thoroughly  good  boy,"  she  said — 
"I  have  told  you  so  often.  But — I'm  not  sure  that 


126  INNOCENT 

I  should  always  get  on  with  anyone  as  good  as  you 
are!" 

She  turned  away  then,  and  moved  towards  the 
house.  As  she  went,  she  suddenly  stopped  and 
clapped  her  hands,  calling: 

"Cupid!     Cupid!     Cu— Coo— pid!" 

A  flash  of  white  wings  glimmered  in  the  sunset- 
light,  and  her  pet  dove  flew  to  her,  circling  round 
and  round  till  it  dropped  on  her  outstretched  arm. 
She  caught  it  to  her  bosom,  kissing  its  soft  head  ten- 
derly, and  murmuring  playful  words  to  it.  Robin 
watched  her,  as  with  this  favourite  bird-playmate 
she  disappeared  across  the  garden  and  into  the 
house.  Then  he  gave  a  gesture  half  of  despair,  half 
of  resignation — and  left  the  orchard. 

The  sun  sank,  and  the  evening  shadows  began  to 
steal  slowly  in  their  long  darkening  lines  over  the 
quiet  fields,  and  yet  Farmer  Jocelyn  had  not  yet  re- 
turned. The  women  of  the  household  grew  anx- 
ious— Priscilla  went  to  the  door  many  times,  look- 
ing up  the  tortuous  by-road  for  the  first  glimpse 
of  the  expected  returning  vehicle — and  Innocent 
stood  in  the  garden  near  the  porch,  as  watchful  as 
a  sentinel  and  as  silent.  At  last  the  sound  of 
trotting  hoofs  was  heard  in  the  far  distance,  and 
Robin,  suddenly  making  his  appearance  from  the 
stable-yard  where  he  too  had  been  waiting,  called 
cheerily, — 

"Uncle  at  last!     Here  he  comes!" 

Another  few  minutes  and  the  mare's  head  turned 
the  corner — then  the  whole  dog-cart  came  into  view 
with  Farmer  Jocelyn  driving  it.  But  he  was  quite 
alone. 

Robin  and  Innocent  exchanged  surprised  glances, 
but  had  no  time  to  make  any  comment  as  old  Hugo 
just  then  drove  up  and,  throwing  the  reins  to  his 
nephew,  alighted. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     127 

"Aren't  you  very  late,  Dad?"  said  Innocent  then, 
going  to  meet  him — "I  was  beginning  to  be  quite 
anxious!" 

"Were  you?  Poor  little  one!  I'm  all  right!  I 
had  business — I  was  kept  longer  than  I  expected 
"  Here  he  turned  quickly  to  Robin — "Unhar- 
ness, boy! — unharness! — and  come  in  to  supper!" 

"Where's  Landon?"  asked  Robin. 

"Landon?    Oh,  I've  left  him  in  the  town." 

He  pulled  off  his  driving-gloves,  and  unbuttoned 
his  overcoat — then  strode  into  the  house.  Innocent 
followed  him — she  was  puzzled  by  his  look  and  man- 
ner, and  her  heart  beat  with  a  vague  sense  of  fear. 
There  was  something  about  the  old  man  that  was 
new  and  strange  to  her.  She  could  not  define  it, 
but  it  filled  her  mind  with  a  curious  and  inexplica- 
ble uneasiness.  Priscilla,  who  was  setting  the  dishes 
on  the  table  in  the  room  where  the  cloth  was  laid 
for  supper,  had  the  same  uncomfortable  impression 
when  she  saw  him  enter.  His  face  was  unusually 
pale  and  drawn,  and  the  slight  stoop  of  age  in  his 
otherwise  upright  figure  seemed  more  pronounced 
than  usual.  He  drew  up  his  chair  to  the  table  and 
sat  down, — then  ruffling  his  fine  white  hair  over  his 
brow  with  one  hand,  looked  round  him  with  an  evi- 
dently forced  smile. 

"Anxious  about  me,  were  you,  child?"  he  said,  as 
Innocent  took  her  place  beside  him.  "Well,  well! 
you  need  not  have  given  me  a  thought!  I — I  was 
all  right — all  right!  I  made  a  bit  of  a  bargain 
in  the  town — but  the  prices  were  high — and  Lan- 
don  " 

He  broke  off  suddenly  and  stared  in  front  of  him 
with  strange  fixed  eyeballs. 

Innocent  and  Priscilla  looked  at  one  another  in 
alarm.  There  was  a  moment's  tense  stillness, — then 
Innocent  said  in  rather  a  trembling  voice — 


128  INNOCENT 

"Yes,  Dad?  You  were  saying  something  about 
London " 

The  stony  glare  faded  from  his  eyes  and  he  looked 
at  her  with  a  more  natural  expression. 

"Landon?  Did  I  speak  of  him?  Oh  yes! — Lan- 
don  met  with  some  fellows  he  knew  and  decided  to 
spend  the  evening  with  them — he  asked  me  for  a 
night  off — and  I  gave  it  to  him.  Yes — I — I  gave  it 
to  him." 

Just  then  Robin  entered. 

"Hullo!"    he    exclaimed,    gaily — "At    supper? 
Don't  begin  without  me!     I  say,  Uncle,  is  Landon 
coming  back  to-night?" 

Jocelyn  turned  upon  him  sharply. 

"No!"  he  answered,  in  so  fierce  a  tone  that  Robin 
stood  amazed — "Why  do  you  all  keep  on  asking  me 
about  Landon?  He  loves  drink  more  than  life,  and 
he's  having  all  he  wants  to-night.  I've  let  him  off 
work  to-morrow." 

Robin  was  silent  for  a  moment  out  of  sheer  sur- 
prise. 

"Oh  well,  that's  all  right,  if  you  don't  mind,"  he 
said,  at  last — "We're  pretty  busy — but  I  daresay 
we  can  manage  without  him." 

"I  should  think  so!"  and  Hugo  gave  a  short  laugh 
of  scorn — "Briar  Farm  would  have  come  to  a  pretty 
pass  if  it  could  not  get  on  without  a  man  like  Lan- 
don!" 

There  was  another  silent  pause. 

Priscilla  gave  an  anxious  side-glance  at  Innocent's 
troubled  face,  and  decided  to  relieve  the  tension  by 
useful  commonplace  talk. 

"Well,  Landon  or  no  Landon,  supper's  ready!" 
she  said,  briskly — "and  it's  been  waiting  an  hour 
at  least.  Say  grace,  Mister  Jocelyn,  and  I'll  carve!" 

Jocelyn  looked  at  her  bewilderedly. 

"Say  grace?"  he  queried — "what  for?" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     129 

Priscilla  laughed  loudly  to  cover  the  surprise  she 
felt. 

"What  for?  Lor,  Mister  Jocelyn,  if  you  don't 
know  I'm  sure  I  don't!  For  the  beef  and  potatoes, 
I  suppose,  an'  all  the  stuff  we  eats — 'for  what  we  are 
going  to  receive ' '' 

"Ah,  yes!  I  remember — 'May  the  Lord  make  us 
truly  thankful!'"  responded  Jocelyn,  closing  his 
eyes  for  a  second  and  then  opening  them  again — 
"And  I'll  tell  you  what,  Priscilla! — there's  a  deal 
more  to  be  thankful  for  to-night  than  beef  and  po- 
tatoes!— a  great  deal  more!" 


CHAPTER  VH 

THE  supper  was  a  very  silent  meal.  Old  Hugo 
was  evidently  not  inclined  to  converse, — he  ate  his 
food  quickly,  almost  ravenously,  without  seeming  to 
be  conscious  that  he  was  eating.  Robin  Clifford 
glanced  at  him  now  and  again  watchfully,  and  with 
some  anxiety, — an  uncomfortable  idea  that  there 
was  something  wrong  somewhere  worried  him, — 
moreover  he  was  troubled  by  the  latent  feeling  that 
presently  his  uncle  would  be  sure  to  ask  if  all  was 
"settled"  between  himself  and  Innocent.  Strangely 
enough,  however,  the  old  man  made  no  allusion  to 
the  subject.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  it,  though 
it  had  been  the  chief  matter  on  which  he  had  laid 
so  much  stress  that  morning.  Each  minute  Inno- 
cent expected  him  to  turn  upon  her  with  the  dreaded 
question — to  which  she  would  have  had  to  reply 
untruly,  according  to  the  plan  made  between  her- 
self and  Robin.  But  to  her  great  surprise  and  re- 
lief he  said  nothing  that  conveyed  the  least  hint  of 
the  wish  he  had  so  long  cherished.  He  was  irrita- 
ble and  drowsy, — now  and  again  his  head  fell  a 
little  forward  on  his  chest  and  his  eyes  closed  as 
though  in  utter  weariness.  Seeing  this,  the  prac- 
tical Priscilla  made  haste  to  get  the  supper  finished 
and  cleared  away. 

"You  be  off  to  bed,  Mister  Jocelyn,"  she  said, — 
"The  sooner  the  better,  for  you  look  as  tired  as  a 
lame  dog  that  'as  limped  'ome  twenty  miles.  You 
ain't  fit  to  be  racketing  about  markets  an'  drivin' 
bargains." 

"Who  says  I'm  not?"  he  interrupted,  sitting  bolt 
upright  and  glaring  fiercely  at  her — "I  tell  you  I 

130 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     131 

am!  I  can  do  business  as  well  as  any  man — and 
drive  a  bargain — ah!  I  should  think  so  indeed! — a 
hard-and-fast  bargain! — not  easy  to  get  out  of,  I 
can  tell  you! — not  easy  to  get  out  of!  And  it  has 
cost  me  a  pretty  penny,  too!" 

Robin  Clifford  glanced  at  him  enquiringly. 

"How's  that?"  he  asked — "You  generally  make 
rather  than  spend!" 

Jocelyn  gave  a  sudden  loud  laugh. 

"So  I  do,  boy,  so  I  do!  But  sometimes  one  has 
to  spend  to  make!  I've  done  both  to-day — I've 
made  and  I've  spent.  And  what  I've  spent  is  better 
than  keeping  it — and  what  I've  made — ay! — what 
I've  made — well! — it's  a  bargain,  and  no  one  can 
say  it  isn't  a  fair  one!" 

He  got  up  from  the  supper  table  and  pushed  away 
his  chair. 

"I'll  go,"  he  said— "Priscilla's  right^I'm  dog- 
tired  and  bed's  the  best  place  for  me."  He  passed 
his  hand  over  his  forehead.  "There's  a  sort  of  buz- 
jzing  in  my  brain  like  the  noise  of  a  cart-wheel — I 
want  rest."  As  he  spoke  Innocent  came  softly  be- 
side him  and  took  his  arm  caressingly.  He  looked 
down  upon  her  with  a  smile.  "Yes,  wilding,  I  want 
rest!  We'll  have  a  long  talk  out  to-morrow — you 
and  I  and  Robin.  Bless  thee,  child!  Good-night!" 

He  kissed  her  tenderly  and  held  out  one  hand  to 
Clifford,  who  cordially  grasped  it. 

"Good  boy!"  he  said — "Be  up  early,  for  there's 
much  to  do — and  Landon  won't  be  home  till  late — 
no — not  till  late!  Get  on  with  the  field  work — for 
if  the  clouds  mean  anything  we  shall  have  ram." 
He  paused  a  moment  and  seemed  to  reflect,  then 
repeated  slowly — "Yes,  lad!  We  shall  have  rain! — 
and  wind,  and  storm!  Be  ready! — the  fine 
weather's  breaking!" 

With  that  he  went,  walking  slowly,   and  they 


132  INNOCENT 

heard  him  stumble  once  or  twice  as  he  went  up  the 
broad  oak  staircase  to  his  bedroom.  Priscilla  put 
her  head  on  one  side,  like  a  meditative  crow,  and 
listened.  Then  she  heaved  a  sigh,  smoothed  down 
her  apron  and  rolled  up  her  eyes. 

"Well,  if  Mister  Jocelyn  worn't  as  sober  a  man  as 
any  judge  an'  jury,"  she  observed — "I  should  say 
Vd  bin  drinkin'!  But  that  ain't  it.  Mr.  Robin, 
there's  somethin'  gone  wrong  with  'im — an'  I  don't 
like  it." 

"Nor  I,"  said  Innocent,  in  a  trembling  voice,  sug- 
gestive of  tears.  "Oh,  Robin,  you  surely  noticed 
how  strange  he  looked !  I'm  so  afraid !  I  feel  as  if 
something  dreadful  was  going  to  happen " 

"Nonsense!"  and  Robin  assumed  an  air  of  indif- 
ference which  he  was  far  from  feeling — "Uncle 
Hugo  is  tired — I  think  he  has  been  put  out — you 
know  he's  quick-tempered  and  easily  irritated — he 
may  have  had  some  annoyance  in  the  town " 

"Ah!  And  where's  Landon?"  put  in  Priscilla, 
with  a  dark  nod — "That  do  beat  me !  Why  ever  the 
master  should  'ave  let  a  man  like  that  go  on  the 
loose  for  a  night  an'  a  day  is  more  than  I  can  make 
out!  It's  sort  of  tempting  Providence — that  it  is!" 

Clifford  flushed  and  turned  aside.  His  fight  with 
Landon  was  fresh  in  his  mind — and  he  began  to 
wonder  whether  he  had  done  rightly  in  telling  his 
uncle  how  it  came  about.  But  meeting  Innocent's 
anxious  eyes,  which  mutely  asked  him  for  comfort, 
he  answered — 

"Oh,  well,  there's  nothing  very  much  in  that, 
Priscilla!  I  daresay  Landon  wanted  a  holiday — he 
doesn't  ask  for  one  often,  and  he's  kept  fairly  sober 
lately.  Hadn't  we  better  be  off  to  bed?  Things  will 
straighten  out  with  the  morning." 

"Do  you  really  think  so?"  Innocent  sighed  as 
she  put  the  question. 

"Of  course  I  think  so!"  answered  Robin,  cheerily. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    133 

"We're  all  tired,  and  can't  look  on  the  bright  side! 
Sound  sleep  is  the  best  cure  for  the  blues!  Good- 
night, Innocent!" 

"Good-night!"  she  said,  gently. 

"Good-night,  Priscilla!" 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Robin.    God  bless  ye!" 

He  smiled,  nodded  kindly  to  them  both,  and  left 
the  room. 

"There's  a  man  for  ye!"  murmured  Priscilla,  ad- 
miringly, as  he  disappeared — "A  tower  of  strength 
for  a  'usband,  which  the  Lord  knows  is  rare !  Lovey, 
you'll  never  do  better!" 

But  Innocent  seemed  not  to  hear.  Her  face  was 
very  pale,  and  her  eyes  had  a  strained  wistful  ex- 
pression. 

"Dad  looks  very  ill,"  she  said,  slowly — "Priscilla, 
surely  you  noticed " 

"Now,  child,  don't  you  worry — 'tain't  no  use" — 
and  Priscilla  lit  two  bedroom  candles,  giving  Inno- 
cent one — "You  just  go  up  to  bed  and  think  of  noth- 
ing till  the  morning.  Mister  Jocelyn  is  dead  beat 
and  put  out  about  something — precious  'ungry  too, 
for  he  ate  his  food  as  though  he  hadn't  'ad  any  all 
day.  You  couldn't  expect  him  to  be  pleasant  if  he 
was  wore  out." 

Innocent  said  nothing  more.  She  gave  a  parting 
glance  round  the  room  to  assure  herself  that  every- 
thing was  tidy,  windows  bolted  and  all  safe  for  the 
night,  and  for  a  fleeting  moment  the  impression 
came  over  her  that  she  would  never  see  it  look  quite 
the  same  again.  A  faint  cold  tremor  ran  through 
her  delicate  little  body — she  felt  lonely  and  afraid. 
Silently  she  followed  Priscilla  up  the  beautiful  Tu- 
dor staircase  to  the  first  landing,  where,  moved  by  a 
tender,  clinging  impulse,  she  kissed  her. 

"Good-night,  you  dear,  kind  Priscilla!"  she  said — 
"You've  always  been  good  to  me!" 

"Bless  you,  my  lovey!"  answered  Priscilla,  with 


134  INNOCENT 

emotion — "Go  and  sleep  with  the  angels,  like  the 
little  angel  you  are  yourself!  And  mind  you  think 
twice,  and  more  than  twice,  before  you  say  'No'  to 
Mr.  Robin!" 

With  a  deprecatory  shake  of  her  head,  and  a  faint 
smile,  Innocent  turned  away,  and  passed  through 
the  curious  tortuous  little  corridor  that  led  to  her 
own  room.  Once  safely  inside  that  quiet  sanctum 
where  the  Sieur  Amadis  of  long  ago  had  "found 
peace,"  she  set  her  candle  down  on  the  oak  table 
and  remained  standing  by  it  for  some  moments,  lost 
in  thought.  The  pale  glimmer  of  the  single  light 
was  scarcely  sufficient  to  disperse  the  shadows 
around  her,  but  the  lattice  window  was  open  and 
admitted  a  shaft  of  moonlight  which  shed  a  pearly 
radiance  on  her  little  figure,  clothed  in  its  simple 
white  gown.  Had  any  artist  seen  her  thus,  alone 
and  absorbed  in  sorrowful  musing,  he  might  have 
taken  her  as  a  model  of  Psyche  after  her  god  had 
flown.  She  was  weary  and  anxious — life  had  sud- 
denly assumed  for  her  a  tragic  aspect.  Old  Joce- 
lyn's  manner  had  puzzled  her — he  was  unlike  him- 
self, and  she  instinctively  felt  that  he  had  some  se- 
cret trouble  on  his  mind.  What  could  it  be?  she 
wondered.  Not  about  herself  and  Robin — for  were 
he  as  keen  on  "putting  up  the  banns"  as  he  had 
been  in  the  morning  he  would  not  have  allowed  the 
matter  to  rest.  He  would  have  asked  straight  ques- 
tions, and  he  would  have  expected  plain  answers, — 
and  they  would,  in  accordance  with  the  secret  un- 
derstanding they  had  made  with  each  other,  have 
deceived  him.  Now  there  was  no  deception  neces- 
sary— he  seemed  to  have  forgotten — at  least  for  the 
present — his  own  dearest  desire.  With  a  sigh,  half 
of  pain,  half  of  relief,  she  seated  herself  at  the  table, 
and  opening  its  one  deep  drawer  with  a  little  key 
which  she  always  wore  round  her  neck,  she  began 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    135 

to  turn  over  her  beloved  pile  of  manuscript,  and  this 
occupied  her  for  several  minutes.  Presently  she 
looked  up,  her  eyes  growing  brilliant  with  thought, 
and  a  smile  on  her  lips. 

"I  really  think  it  might  do!"  she  said,  aloud — "I 
should  not  be  afraid  to  try !  Who  knows  what  might 
happen?  I  can  but  fail — or  succeed.  If  I  fail,  I 
shall  have  had  my  lesson — if  I  succeed " 

She  leaned  her  head  on  her  two  hands,  ruffling  up 
her  pretty  hair  into  soft  golden-brown  rings. 

"If  I  succeed !— ah !— if  I  do !  Then  I'll  pay  back 
everything  I  owe  to  Dad  and  Briar  Farm! — oh,  no! 
I  can  never  pay  back  my  debt  to  Briar  Farm! — 
that  would  be  impossible!  Why,  the  very  fields 
and  trees  and  flowers  and  birds  have  made  me 
happy! — happier  than  I  shall  ever  be  after  I  have 
said  good-bye  to  them  all! — good-bye  even  to  the 
Sieur  Amadis!" 

Quick  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes — and  the  tapering 
light  of  the  candle  looked  blurred  and  dim. 

"Yes,  after  all,"  she  went  on,  still  talking  to  the 
air,  "it's  better  and  braver  to  try  to  do  something 
in  the  world,  rather  than  throw  myself  upon  Robin, 
and  be  cowardly  enough  to  take  him  for  a  husband 
when  I  don't  love  him.  Just  for  comfort  and  shel- 
ter and  Briar  Farm!  It  would  be  shameful.  And 
I  could  not  marry  a  man  unless  I  loved  him  quite 
desperately! — I  could  not!  I'm  not  sure  that  I 
like  the  idea  of  marriage  at  all, — it  fastens  a  man 
and  woman  together  for  life,  and  the  time  might 
come  when  they  would  grow  tired  of  each  other. 
How  cruel  and  wicked  it  would  be  to  force  them  to 
endure  each  other's  company  when  they  perhaps 
wished  the  width  of  the  world  between  them!  No 
— I  don't  think  I  should  care  to  be  married — cer- 
tainly not  to  Robin." 

She  put  her  manuscript  by,  and  shut  and  locked 


136  INNOCENT 

the  drawer  containing  it.  Then  she  went  to  the 
open  lattice  window  and  looked  out — and  thought 
of  the  previous  night,  when  Robin  had  swung  him- 
self up  on  the  sill  to  talk  to  her,  and  they  had  been 
all  unaware  that  Ned  Landon  was  listening  down 
below.  A  flush  of  anger  heated  her  cheeks  as  she  re- 
called this  and  all  that  Robin  had  told  her  of  the 
unprepared  attack  Landon  had  made  upon  him  and 
the  ensuing  fight  between  them.  But  now?  Was  it 
not  very  strange  that  Landon  should  apparently  be 
in  such  high  favour  with  Hugo  Jocelyn  that  he  had 
actually  been  allowed  to  stay  in  the  market-town 
and  enjoy  a  holiday,  which  for  him  only  meant  a 
bout  of  drunkenness?  She  could  not  understand  it, 
and  her  perplexity  increased  the  more  she  thought 
of  it.  Leaning  far  out  over  the  window-sill,  she 
gazed  long  and  lovingly  across  the  quiet  stretches 
of  meadowland,  shining  white  in  the  showered  splen- 
dour of  the  moon — the  tall  trees — the  infinite  and 
harmonious  peace  of  the  whole  scene, — then,  shut- 
ting the  lattice,  she  pulled  the  curtains  across  it, 
and  taking  her  lit  candle,  went  to  her  secluded  in- 
ner sleeping-chamber,  where,  in  the  small,  quaintly 
carved  four-poster  bed,  furnished  with  ancient 
tapestry  and  lavendered  linen,  and  covered  up  un- 
der a  quilt  embroidered  three  centuries  back  by  the 
useful  fingers  of  the  wife  of  Sieur  Amadis  de  Joce- 
lin,  she  soon  fell  into  a  sound  and  dreamless  slum- 
ber. 

The  hours  moved  on,  bearing  with  them  different 
destinies  to  millions  of  different  human  lives,  and 
the  tall  old  clock  in  the  great  hall  of  Briar  Farm 
told  them  off  with  a  sonorous  chime  and  clangour 
worthy  of  Westminster  itself.  It  was  a  quiet  night; 
there  was  not  a  breath  of  wind  to  whistle  through 
crack  or  key-hole,  or  swing  open  an  unbolted  door, 
— and  Hero,  the  huge  mastiff  that  always  slept  "on 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     137 

guard"  just  within  the  hall  entrance,  had  surely  no 
cause  to  sit  up  suddenly  on  his  great  haunches  and 
listen  with  uplifted  ears  to  sounds  which  were  to 
any  other  creature  inaudible.  Yet  listen  he  did — 
sharply  and  intently.  Raising  his  massive  head  he 
snuffed  the  air — then  suddenly  began  to  tremble  as 
with  cold,  and  gave  vent  to  a  long,  low,  dismal 
moan.  It  was  a  weird  noise — worse  than  positive 
howling,  and  the  dog  himself  seemed  distressfully 
conscious  that  he  was  expressing  something  strange 
and  unnatural.  Two  or  three  times  he  repeated  this 
eerie  muffled  cry — then,  lying  down  again,  he  put 
his  nose  between  his  great  paws,  and,  with  a  deep 
shivering  sigh,  appeared  to  resign  himself  to  the  in- 
evitable. There  followed  several  moments  of  tense 
silence.  Then  came  a  sudden  dull  thud  overhead,  as 
of  a  heavy  load  falling  or  being  thrown  down,  and  a 
curious  inexplicable  murmur  like  smothered  choking 
or  groaning.  Instantly  the  great  dog  sprang  erect 
and  raced  up  the  staircase  like  a  mad  creature,  bark- 
ing furiously.  The  house  was  aroused — doors  were 
flung  open — Priscilla  rushed  from  her  room  half 
dressed — and  Innocent  ran  along  the  corridor  in  her 
little  white  nightgown,  her  feet  bare,  and  her  hair 
falling  dishevelled  over  her  shoulders. 

"What  is  it?"  she  cried  piteously— "Oh,  do  tell 
me!  What  is  it?" 

Robin  Clifford,  hearing  the  dog's  persistent  bark- 
ing, had  hastily  donned  coat  and  trousers  and  now 
appeared  on  the  scene. 

"Hero,  Hero!"  he  called— "Quiet,  Hero!" 

But  Hero  had  bounded  to  his  master  Jocelyn's 
door  and  was  pounding  against  it  with  all  the  force 
of  his  big  muscular  body,  apparently  seeking  to 
push  or  break  it  open.  Robin  laid  one  hand  on  the 
animal's  collar  and  pulled  him  back — then  tried 
the  door  himself — it  was  locked. 


138  INNOCENT 

"Uncle  Hugo!" 

There  was  no  answer. 

He  turned  to  one  of  the  frightened  servants  who 
were  standing  near.  His  face  was  very  pale. 

"Fetch  me  a  hammer,"  he  said — "Something — • 
anything  that  will  force  the  lock.  Innocent!" — 
and  with  deep  tenderness  he  took  her  little  cold 
hands  in  his  own — "I  wish  you  would  go  away!" 

"Why?"  and  she  looked  at  him  with  eyes  full  of 
terror.  "Oh  no,  no!  Let  me  be  with  you — let  me 
call  him!" — and  she  knelt  outside  the  closed  door — 
"Dad !  Dear  Dad !  I  want  to  speak  to  you !  Mayn't 
I  come  in?  I'm  so  frightened — do  let  me  come  in, 
Dad!" 

But  the  silence  remained  unbroken. 

"Priscilla!" — and  Robin  beckoned  to  her — "keep 
Innocent  beside  you — I'm  afraid " 

Priscilla  nodded,  turning  her  head  aside  a  mo- 
ment to  wipe  away  the  tears  that  were  gathering  in 
her  eyes, — then  she  put  an  arm  round  Innocent's 
waist. 

"Don't  kneel  there,  lovey,"  she  whispered — "It's 
no  good  and  you're  in  the  way  when  they  open  the 
door.  Come  with  me! — there's  a  dear!" — and  she 
drew  the  trembling  little  figure  tenderly  into  her 
arms.  "There! — that'll  be  a  bit  warmer!"  and  she 
signed  to  one  of  the  farm  maids  near  her  to  fetch  a 
cloak  which  she  carefully  wrapped  round  the  girl's 
shoulders.  Just  then  the  hammer  was  brought  with 
other  tools,  and  Robin,  to  save  any  needless  clamour, 
took  a  chisel  and  inserted  it  in  such  a  manner  as 
should  most  easily  force  the  catch  of  the  door — but 
the  lock  was  an  ancient  and  a  strong  one,  and  would 
not  yield  for  some  time.  At  last,  with  an  extra 
powerful  and  dexterous  movement  of  his  hand,  it 
suddenly  gave  way — and  he  saw  what  he  would 
have  given  worlds  that  Innocent  should  not  have 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     139 

seen — old  Hugo  lying  face  forward  on  the  floor,  mo- 
tionless. There  was  a  rush  and  a  wild  cry — 

"Dad!     Dad!" 

She  was  beside  him  in  a  moment,  trying  with  all 
her  slight  strength  to  lift  his  head  and  turn  his 
face. 

"Help  me — oh,  help  me!"  she  wailed.  "He  has 
faulted — we  must  lift  him — get  some  one  to  lift  him 
on  the  bed.  It  is  only  a  faint — he  will  recover — get 
some  brandy  and  send  for  the  doctor.  Don't  lose 
time! — for  Heaven's  sake  be  quick!  Robin,  make 
them  hurry!" 

Robin  had  already  whispered  his  orders, — and 
two  of  the  farm  lads,  roused  from  sleep  and  hastily 
summoned,  were  ready  to  do  what  he  told  them. 
With  awed,  hushed  movements  they  lifted  the  heavy 
fallen  body  of  their  master  between  them  and  laid 
it  gently  down  on  the  bed.  As  the  helpless  head 
dropped  back  on  the  pillow  they  saw  that  all  was 
over, — the  pinched  ashen  grey  of  the  features  and 
the  fast  glazing  eyes  told  their  own  fatal  story — 
there  was  no  hope.  But  Innocent  held  the  cold 
hand  of  the  dead  man  to  her  warm  young  bosom, 
endeavouring  to  take  from  it  its  cureless  chill. 

"He  will  be  better  soon,"  she  said, — "Priscilla, 
bring  me  that  brandy — just  a  little  will  revive  him, 
I'm  sure.  Why  do  you  stand  there  crying?  You 
surely  don't  think  he's  dead? — No,  no,  that  isn't 
possible!  It  isn't  possible,  is  it,  Robin?  He'll  come 
to  himself  in  a  few  minutes — a  fainting  fit  may  last 
quite  a  long  time.  I  wish  he  had  not  locked  his  door 
— we  could  have  been  with  him  sooner." 

So  she  spoke,  tremblingly  nursing  the  dead  hand 
in  her  bosom.  No  one  present  had  the  heart  to 
contradict  her — and  Priscilla,  with  the  tears  run- 
ning down  her  face,  brought  the  brandy  she  asked 
for  and  held  it  while  she  tenderly  moistened  the 


140  INNOCENT 

lips  of  the  corpse  and  tried  to  force  a  few  drops  be- 
tween the  clenched  teeth — in  vain.  This  futile  at- 
tempt frightened  her,  and  she  looked  at  Robin  Clif- 
ford with  a  wild  air. 

"I  cannot  make  him  swallow  it,"  she  said — "Can 
you,  Robin?  He  looks  so  grey  and  cold! — but  his 
lips  are  quite  warm." 

Robin,  restraining  the  emotion  that  half  choked 
hun  and  threatened  to  overflow  in  womanish  weep- 
ing, went  up  to  her  and  tried  to  coax  her  away  from 
the  bedside. 

"Dear,  if  you  could  leave  him  for  a  little  it  would 
perhaps  be  better,"  he  said.  "He  might — he  might 
recover  sooner.  We  have  sent  for  the  doctor — he 
will  be  here  directly " 

"I  will  stay  here  till  he  comes,"  replied  the  girl, 
quietly.  "How  can  you  think  I  would  leave 
Dad  when  he's  ill?  If  we  could  only  rouse  him  a 
little " 

Ah,  that  "if"!  If  we  could  only  rouse  our  be- 
loved ones  who  fall  into  that  eternal  sleep,  would 
not  all  the  riches  and  glories  of  the  world  seem  tame 
in  comparison  with  such  joy!  Innocent  had  never 
seen  death — she  could  not  realise  that  this  calm  ir- 
responsiveness,  this  cold  and  stiffening  rigidity, 
meant  an  end  to  the  love  and  care  she  had  known 
all  her  life — love  and  care  which  would  never  be 
replaced  in  quite  the  same  way! 

The  first  peep  of  a  silver  dawn  began  to  peer 
through  the  lattice  window,  and  as  she  saw  this  sug- 
gestion of  wakening  life,  a  sudden  dread  clutched  at 
her  heart  and  made  it  cold. 

"It  will  be  morning  soon,"  she  said — "Priscilla, 
when  will  the  doctor  come?" 

Scarcely  had  she  said  the  words  when  the  doctor 
entered.  He  took  a  comprehensive  glance  round  the 
room, — at  the  still  form  on  the  bed — at  the  little 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     141 

crouching  girl-figure  beside  it — at  Priscilla,  trem- 
bling and  tearful — at  Robin,  deadly  pale  and  self- 
restrained — at  the  farm-lads  and  servants. 

"When  did  this  happen?"  he  said. 

Robin  told  him. 

"I  see!"  he  said.  "He  must  have  fallen  forward 
on  getting  out  of  bed.  I  rather  expected  a  sudden 
seizure  of  this  kind." 

He  made  his  brief  examination.  The  eyes  of  the 
dead  man  were  open  and  glassily  staring  upward — 
he  gently  closed  the  lids  over  them  and  pressed  them 
down.  « 

"Nothing  to  be  done,"  he  went  on,  gently — "His 
end  was  painless." 

Innocent  had  risen — she  had  laid  the  cold  hand 
of  the  corpse  back  on  its  breast — and  she  stood 
gazing  vacantly  before  her  in  utter  misery. 

"Nothing  to  be  done?"  she  faltered — "Do  you 
mean  that  you  cannot  rouse  him?  Will  he  never 
speak  to  me  again?" 

The  doctor  looked  at  her  gravely  and  kindly. 

"Not  in  this  world,  my  dear,"  he  said — "in  the 
next — perhaps!  Let  us  hope  so!" 

She  put  her  hand  up  to  her  forehead  with  a  be- 
wildered gesture. 

"He  is  dead!"  she  cried— "Dead!  Oh,  Robin, 
Robin!  I  can't  believe  it! — it  isn't  true!  Dad, 
dear  Dad!  My  only  friend!  Good-bye — good-bye, 
Dad! — good-bye,  Briar  Farm — good-bye  to  every- 
thing—oh, Dad!" 

Her  voice  quavered  and  broke  in  a  passion  of 
tears. 

"I  loved  him  as  if  he  were  my  own  father,"  she 
sobbed.  "And  he  loved  me  as  if  I  were  his  own 
child!  Oh,  Dad,  darling  Dad!  We  can  never  love 
each  other  again!" 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE  news  of  Farmer  Jocelyn's  sudden  death  was 
as  though  a  cloud-burst  had  broken  over  the  village, 
dealing  utter  and  hopeless  destruction.  To  the  little 
community  of  simple  workaday  folk  living  round 
Briar  Farm  it  wa"s  a  greater  catastrophe  than  the 
death  of  any  king.  Nothing  else  was  talked  of. 
Nothing  was  done.  Men  stood  idly  about,  looking  at 
each  other  in  a  kind  of  stupefied  consternation, — 
women  chattered  and  whispered  at  their  cottage 
doors,  shaking  their  heads  with  all  that  melancholy 
profundity  of  wisdom  which  is  not  wise  till  after  the 
event, — the  children  were  less  noisy  in  their  play, 
checked  by  the  grave  faces  of  their  parents — the 
very  dogs  seemed  to  know  that  something  had  oc- 
curred which  altered  the  aspect  of  ordinary  daily 
things.  The  last  of  the  famous  Jocelyns  was  no 
more!  It  seemed  incredible.  And  Briar  Farm? 
What  would  become  of  Briar  Farm? 

"There  ain't  none  o'  th'  owd  folk  left  now,"  said 
one  man,  lighting  his  pipe  slowly — "It's  all  over  an' 
done  wi'.  Mister  Clifford,  he's  good  enow — but 
he  ain't  a  Jocelyn,  though  a  Jocelyn  were  his 
mother.  'Tis  the  male  side  as  tells.  An'  he's  young, 
an'  he'll  want  change  an'  rovin'  about  like  all  young 
men  nowadays,  an'  the  place'll  be  broke  up,  an'  the 
timber  felled,  an'  th'  owd  oak'll  be  sold  to  a  dealer, 
an'  Merrikans'll  come  an'  buy  the  pewter  an'  the 
glass  an'  the  linen,  an'  by-an'-bye  we  won't  know 
there  ever  was  such  a  farm  at  all " 

"That's  your  style  o'  thinkin',  is  it?"  put  in  an- 

142 


other  man  standing  by,  with  a  round  straw  hat  set 
back  upon  his  head  in  a  fashion  which  gave  him  the 
appearance  of  a  village  idiot — "Well,  it's  not  mine! 
No,  by  no  means!  There'll  be  a  Will, — an'  Mister 
Robin  he'll  find  a  Way!  Briar  Farm'll  allus  be 
Briar  Farm  accordin'  to  my  mind!" 

"Your  mind  ain't  much,"  growled  the  first 
speaker — "so  don't  ye  go  settin'  store  by  it.  Lord, 
Lord!  to  think  o'  Farmer  Jocelyn  bein'  gone! 
Seems  as  if  a  right  'and  'ad  bin  cut  off !  Onny  yes- 
terday I  met  'im  drivin'  along  the  road  at  a  tearin' 
pace,  with  Ned  Landon  sittin'  beside  'im — an' 
drivin'  fine  too,  for  the  mare's  a  tricky  one  with  a 
mouth  as  'ard  as  iron — but  'e  held  'er  firm — that  'e 
did! — no  weakness  about  'im — an'  'e  was  talkin' 
away  to  Landon  while  'e  drove,  'ardly  lookin'  right 
or  left,  'e  was  that  sure  of  hisself.  An'  now  'e's  cold 
as  stone — who  would  a'  thort  it!" 

"Where's  Landon?"  asked  the  other  man. 

"I  dunno.  He's  nowhere  about  this  mornin'  that 
I've  seen." 

At  that  moment  a  figure  came  into  view,  turning 
the  corner  of  a  lane  at  the  end  of  the  scattered 
thatched  cottages  called  "the  village," — a  portly, 
consequential-looking  figure,  which  both  men  recog- 
nised as  that  of  the  parson  of  the  parish,  and  they 
touched  their  caps  accordingly.  The  Reverend 
William  Medwin,  M.A.,  was  a  great  personage, — 
and  his  "cure  of  souls"  extended  to  three  other  vil- 
lages outlying  the  one  of  which  Briar  Farm  was 
the  acknowledged  centre. 

"Good-morning!"  he  said,  with  affable  conde- 
scension— "I  hear  that  Farmer  Jocelyn  died  sud- 
denly last  night.  Is  it  true?" 

Both  men  nodded  gravely. 

"Yes,  sir,  it's  true — more's  the  pity!  It's  took  us 
all  aback." 


144  INNOCENT 

"Ay,  ay!"  and  Mr.  Medwin  nodded  blandly — "No 
doubt— no  doubt!  But  I  suppose  the  farm  will  go 
on  just  the  same? — there  will  be  no  lack  of  employ- 
ment?" 

The  man  who  was  smoking  looked  doubtful. 

"Nobuddy  can  tell — m'appen  the  place  will  be 
sold — m'appen  it  won't.  The  hands  may  be  kept, 
or  they  may  be  given  the  sack.  There's  only  Mr. 
Clifford  left  now,  an'  'e  ain't  a  Jocelyn." 

"Does  that  matter?"  and  the  reverend  gentleman 
smiled  with  the  superior  air  of  one  far  above  all 
things  of  mere  traditional  sentiment.  "There  is  the 
girl " 

"Ah,  yes !    There's  the  girl ! " 

The  speakers  looked  at  one  another. 

"Her  position,"  continued  Mr.  Medwin,  medita- 
tively tracing  a  pattern  on  the  ground  with  the  end 
of  his  walking-stick,  "seems  to  me  to  be  a  little  un- 
fortunate. But  I  presume  she  is  really  the  daughter 
of  our  deceased  friend?" 

The  man  who  was  smoking  took  the  pipe  from 
his  mouth  and  stared  for  a  moment. 

"Daughter  she  may  be,"  he  said,  "but  born  out  o' 
wedlock  anyhow — an'  she  ain't  got  no  right  to  Briar 
Farm  unless  th'  owd  man  'as  made  'er  legal.  An' 
if  'e's  done  that  it  don't  alter  the  muddle,  'cept  in 
the  eyes  o'  the  law  which  can  twist  ye  any  way — for 
she  was  born  bastard,  an'  there's  never  been  a  bas- 
tard Jocelyn  on  Briar  Farm  all  the  hundreds  o'  years 
it's  been  standin'!" 

Mr.  Medwin  again  interested  himself  in  a  dust 
pattern. 

"Ah,  dear,  dear!"  he  sighed — "Very  sad,  very  sad! 
Our  follies  always  find  us  out,  if  not  while  we  live, 
then  when  we  die !  I'm  sorry !  Farmer  Jocelyn  was 
not  a  Churchman — no! — a  regrettable  circum- 
stance!— still,  I'm  sorry!  He  was  a  useful  person  in 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     145 

the  parish — quite  honest,  I  believe,  and  a  very  fair 
and  good  master " 

"None  better!"  chorussed  his  listeners. 

"True!  None  better.  Well,  well!  I'll  just  go 
up  to  the  house  and  see  if  I  can  be  of  any  service,  or 
— or  comfort " 

One  of  the  men  smiled  darkly. 

"Sartin  sure  Farmer  Jocelyn's  as  dead  as  door- 
nails. If  so  be  you  are  a-goin'  to  Briar  Farm,  Mr. 
Medwin!"  he  said — "Why,  you  never  set  foot  in  the 
place  while  'e  was  a  livin'  man!" 

"Quite  correct!"  and  Mr.  Medwin  nodded  pleas- 
antly— "I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  go  where  I'm  not 
wanted."  He  paused,  impressively, — conscious  that 
he  had  "scored."  "But  now  that  trouble  has  visited 
the  house  I  consider  it  my  duty  to  approach  the 
fatherless  and  the  afflicted.  Good-day!" 

He  walked  off  then,  treading  ponderously  and 
wearing  a  composed  and  serious  demeanour.  The 
men  who  had  spoken  with  him  were  quickly  joined 
by  two  or  three  others. 

"Parson  goin'  to  the  Farm?"  they  enquired. 

"Ay!" 

"We'll  'ave  gooseberries  growin'  on  hayricks 
next!"  declared  a  young,  rough-featured  fellow  in  a 
smock — "anythin'  can  'appen  now  we've  lost  the 
last  o'  the  Jocelyns!" 

And  such  was  the  general  impression  throughout 
the  district.  Men  met  in  the  small  public-houses 
and  over  their  mugs  of  beer  discussed  the  possibili- 
ties of  emigrating  to  Canada  or  New  Zealand,  for — 
"there'll  be  no  more  farm  work  worth  doin'  round 
'ere" — they  all  declared — "Mister  Jocelyn  wanted 
men,  an'  paid  'em  well  for  workin'  like  men! — but 
it'll  all  be  machines  now." 

Meanwhile,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Medwin,  M.A., 
had  arrived  at  Briar  Farm.  Everything  was  curi- 


146  INNOCENT 

ously  silent.  All  the  blinds  were  down — the  stable- 
doors  were  closed,  and  the  stable-yard  was  empty. 
The  sunlight  swept  in  broad  slanting  rays  over  the 
brilliant  flower-beds  which  were  now  at  their  gayest 
and  best, — the  doves  lay  sleeping  on  the  roofs  of 
sheds  and  barns  as  though  mesmerised  and  forbid- 
den to  fly.  A  marked  loneliness  clouded  the  peace- 
ful beauty  of  the  place — a  loneliness  that  made  it- 
self seen  and  felt  by  even  the  most  casual  visitor. 

With  a  somewhat  hesitating  hand  Mr.  Medwin 
pulled  the  door-bell.  In  a  minute  or  two  a  maid 
answered  the  summons — her  eyes  were  red  with 
weeping.  At  sight  of  the  clergyman  she  looked  sur- 
prised and  a  little  frightened. 

"How  is  Miss — Miss  Jocelyn?"  he  enquired, 
softly — "I  have  only  just  heard  the  sad  news " 

"She's  not  able  to  see  anyone,  sir,"  replied  the 
maid,  tremulously — "at  least  I  don't  think  so — I'll 
ask.  She's  very  upset " 

"Of  course,  of  course!"  said  Mr.  Medwin,  sooth- 
ingly— "I  quite  understand!  Please  say  I  called! 
Mr.  Clifford " 

A  figure  stepped  out  from  the  interior  darkness 
of  the  shadowed  hall  towards  him. 

"I  am  here,"  said  Robin,  gently — "Did  you  wish 
to  speak  to  me?  This  is  a  house  of  heavy  mourn- 
ing to-day!" 

The  young  man's  voice  shook, — he  was  deadly 
pale,  and  there  was  a  strained  look  in  his  eyes  of 
unshed  tears.  Mr.  Medwin  was  conscious  of  nerv- 
ous embarrassment. 

"Indeed,  indeed  I  know  it  is!"  he  murmured— *"I 
feel  for  you  most  profoundly!  So  sudden  a  shock 
too! — I — I  thought  that  perhaps  Miss  Jocelyn — a 
young  girl  struck  by  her  first  great  loss  and  sorrow, 
might  like  to  see  me " 

Robin  Clifford  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  a  mo- 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     147 

ment.  The  consolations  of  the  Church!  Would 
they  mean  anything  to  Innocent?  He  wondered. 

"I  will  ask  her,"  he  said  at  last,  abruptly — "Will 
you  step  inside?" 

Mr.  Medwin  accepted  the  suggestion,  taking  off 
his  hat  as  he  crossed  the  threshold,  and  soon  found 
himself  in  the  quaint  sitting-room  where,  but  two 
days  since,  Hugo  Jocelyn  had  told  Innocent  all  her 
true  history.  He  could  not  help  being  impressed  by 
its  old-world  peace  and  beauty,  furnished  as  it  was 
in  perfect  taste,  with  its  window-outlook  on  a  para- 
dise of  happy  flowers  rejoicing  in  the  sunlight.  The 
fragrance  of  sweet  lavender  scented  the  air,  and  a 
big  china  bowl  of  roses  in  the  centre  of  the  table 
gave  a  touch  of  tender  brightness  to  the  old  oak 
panelling  on  the  walls. 

"There  are  things  in  this  room  that  are  priceless!" 
soliloquised  the  clergyman,  who  was  something  of  a 
collector — "If  the  place  comes  under  the  hammer  I 
shall  try  to  pick  up  a  few  pieces." 

He  smiled,  with  the  pleased  air  of  one  who  feels 
that  all  things  must  have  an  end — either  by  the 
"hammer"  or  otherwise, — even  a  fine  old  house,  the 
pride  and  joy  of  a  long  line  of  its  owners  during 
three  hundred  years.  And  then  he  started,  as  the 
door  opened  slowly  and  softly  and  a  girl  stood  be- 
fore him,  looking  more  like  a  spirit  than  a  mortal, 
clad  in  a  plain  white  gown,  with  a  black  ribbon 
threaded  through  her  waving  fair  hair.  She  was 
pale  to  the  very  lips,  and  her  eyes  were  swollen  and 
heavy  with  weeping.  Timidly  she  held  out  her 
hand. 

"It  is  kind  of  you  to  come,"  she  said, — and 
paused. 

He,  having  taken  her  hand  and  let  it  go  again, 
stood  awkwardly  mute.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
seen  Innocent  in  her  home  surroundings,  and  he  had 


148  INNOCENT 

hardly  noticed  her  at  all  when  he  had  by  chance  met 
her  in  her  rare  walks  through  the  village  and  neigh- 
bourhood, so  that  he  was  altogether  unprepared  for 
the  refined  delicacy  and  grace  of  her  appearance. 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  of  your  sad  bereave- 
ment," he  began,  at  last,  in  a  conventional  tone — 
"very  sorry  indeed " 

She  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"Are  you?  I  don't  think  you  can  be  sorry,  be- 
cause you  did  not  know  him — if  you  had  known 
him,  you  would  have  been  really  grieved — yes,  I 
am  sure  you  would.  He  was  such  a  good  man! — 
one  of  the  best  in  all  the  world !  I'm  glad  you  have 
come  to  see  me,  because  I  have  often  wanted  to 
speak  to  you — and  perhaps  now  is  the  right  time. 
Won't  you  sit  down?" 

He  obeyed  her  gesture,  surprised  more  or  less  by 
her  quiet  air  of  sad  self-possession.  He  had  ex- 
pected to  offer  the  usual  forms  of  religious  consola- 
tion to  a  sort  of  uneducated  child  or  farm-girl, 
nervous,  trembling  and  tearful, — instead  of  this  he 
found  a  woman  whose  grief  was  too  deep  and  sin- 
cere to  be  relieved  by  mere  talk,  and  whose  pathetic 
composure  and  patience  were  the  evident  result  of 
a  highly  sensitive  mental  organisation. 

"I  have  never  seen  death  before,"  she  said,  in 
hushed  tones — "except  in  birds  and  flowers  and  ani- 
mals— and  I  have  cried  over  the  poor  things  for 
sorrow  that  they  should  be  taken  away  out  of  this 
beautiful  world.  But  with  Dad  it  is  different.  He 
was  afraid — afraid  of  suffering  and  weakness — and 
he  was  taken  so  quickly  that  he  could  hardly  have 
felt  anything — so  that  his  fears  were  all  useless. 
And  I  can  hardly  believe  he  is  dead — actually  dead 
— can  you?  But  of  course  you  do  not  believe  in 
death  at  all — the  religion  you  teach  is  one  of  eternal 
life — eternal  life  and  happiness." 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    149 

Mr.  Medwin's  lips  moved — he  murmured  some- 
thing about  "living  again  in  the  Lord." 

Innocent  did  not  hear, — she  was  absorbed  in  her 
own  mental  problem  and  anxious  to  put  it  before 
him. 

"Listen!"  she  said— "When  Priscilla  told  me  Dad 
was  really  dead — that  he  would  never  get  off  the  bed 
where  he  lay  so  cold  and  white  and  peaceful, — that 
he  would  never  speak  to  me  again,  I  said  she  was 
wrong — that  it  could  not  be.  I  told  her  he  would 
wake  presently  and  laugh  at  us  all  for  being  so 
foolish  as  to  think  him  dead.  Even  Hero,  our  mas- 
tiff, does  not  believe  it,  for  he  has  stayed  all  morn- 
ing by  the  bedside  and  no  one  dare  touch  him  to 
take  him  away.  And  just  now  Priscilla  has  been 
with  me,  crying  very  much — and  she  says  I  must 
not  grieve, — because  Dad  is  gone  to  a  better  world. 
Then  surely  he  must  be  alive  if  he  is  able  to  go  any- 
where, must  he  not?  I  asked  her  what  she  knew 
about  this  better  world,  and  she  cried  again  and 
said  indeed  she  knew  nothing  except  what  she  had 
been  taught  in  her  Catechism.  I  have  read  the 
Catechism  and  it  seems  to  me  very  stupid  and  un- 
natural— perhaps  because  I  do  not  understand  it. 
Can  you  tell  me  about  this  better  world?" 

Mr.  Medwin's  lips  moved  again.  He  cleared  his 
throat. 

"I'm  afraid,"  he  observed — "I'm  very  much 
afraid,  my  poor  child,  that  you  have  been  brought 
up  in  a  sad  state  of  ignorance " 

Innocent  did  not  like  being  called  a  "poor  child" 
— and  she  gave  a  little  gesture  of  annoyance. 

"Please  do  not  pity  me,"  she  said,  with  a  touch 
of  hauteur — "I  do  not  wish  that !  I  know  it  is  diffi- 
cult for  me  to  explain  things  to  you  as  I  see  them, 
because  I  have  never  been  taught  religion  from  a 
Church.  I  have  read  about  the  Virgin  and  Christ 


150  INNOCENT 

and  the  Saints  and  all  those  pretty  legends  in  the 
books  that  belonged  to  the  Sieur  Amadis — but  he 
lived  three  hundred  years  ago  and  he  was  a  Roman 
Catholic,  as  all  those  French  noblemen  were  at  that 
time." 

Mr.  Medwin  stared  at  her  in  blank  bewilderment. 
Who  was  the  Sieur  Amadis?  She  went  on,  heedless 
of  his  perplexity. 

"Dad  believed  in  a  God  who  governed  all 
things  rightly, — I  have  heard  him  say  that  God 
managed  the  farm  and  made  it  what  it  is.  But 
he  never  spoke  much  about  it — and  he  hated  the 
Church " 

The  reverend  gentleman  interrupted  her  with  a 
grave  uplifted  hand. 

"I  know ! "  he  sighed — "Ah  yes,  I  know !  A  dread- 
ful thing! — a  shocking  attitude  of  mind!  I  fear  he 
was  not  saved!" 

She  looked  straightly  at  him. 

"I  don't  see  what  you  mean,"  she  said — "He  was 
quite  a  good  man " 

"Are  you  sure  of  that?"  and  Mr.  Medwin  fixed 
his  shallow  brown  eyes  searchingly  upon  her.  "Our 
affections  are  often  very  deceptive " 

A  flush  of  colour  overspread  her  pale  cheeks. 

"Indeed  I  am  very  sure!"  she  answered,  steadily 
— "He  was  a  good  man.  There  was  never  a  stain 
on  his  character — though  he  allowed  people  to  think 
wrong  things  of  him  for  my  sake.  That  was  his  only 
fault." 

He  was  silent,  waiting  for  her  next  word. 

"I  think  perhaps  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  she  con- 
tinued— "because  then  you  will  be  able  to  judge 
him  better  and  spare  his  memory  from  foolish  and 
wicked  scandal.  He  was  not  my  father — I  was  only 
his  adopted  daughter." 

Mr.  Medwin  gave  a  slight  cough — a  cough  of  in- 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     151 

credulity.  "Adopted"  is  a  phrase  often  used  to 
cover  the  brand  of  illegitimacy. 

"I  never  knew  my  own  history  till  the  other  day," 
she  said,  slowly  and  sadly.  "The  doctor  came  to 
see  Dad,  with  a  London  specialist,  a  friend  of  his — 
and  they  told  him  he  had  not  long  to  live.  After 
that  Dad  made  up  his  mind  that  I  must  learn  all 
the  truth  of  myself — oh! — what  a  terrible  truth  it 
was! — I  thought  my  heart  would  break!  It  was  so 
strange — so  cruel!  I  had  grown  up  believing  myself 
to  be  Dad's  own,  very  own  daughter! — and  I  had 
been  deceived  all  my  life! — for  he  told  me  I  was 
nothing  but  a  nameless  child,  left  on  his  hands  by 
a  stranger!" 

Mr.  Medwin  opened  his  small  eyes  in  amazement, 
— he  was  completely  taken  aback.  He  tried  to 
grasp  the  bearings  of  this  new  aspect  of  the  situa- 
tion thus  presented  to  him,  but  could  not  realise 
anything  save  what  in  his  own  mind  was  he  pleased 
to  call  a  "cock-and-bull"  story. 

"Most  extraordinary!"  he  ejaculated,  at  last — 
"Did  he  give  you  no  clue  at  all  as  to  your  actual 
parentage?" 

Innocent  shook  her  head. 

"How  could  he?  A  man  on  horseback  arrived 
here  suddenly  one  very  stormy  night,  carrying  me 
in  his  arms — I  was  just  a  little  baby — and  asked 
shelter  for  me,  promising  to  come  and  fetch  me  in 
the  morning — but  he  never  came — and  Dad  never 
knew  who  he  was.  I  was  kept  here  out  of  pity  at 
first — then  Dad  began  to  love  me " 

The  suppressed  tears  rose  to  her  eyes  and  began 
to  fall. 

"Priscilla  can  tell  you  all  about  it,"  she  continued, 
tremulously — "if  you  wish  to  know  more.  I  am 
only  explaining  things  a  little  because  I  do  want  you 
to  understand  that  Dad  was  really  a  good  man 


152  INNOCENT 

though  he  djd  not  go  to  Church — and  he  must  have 
been  'saved/  as  you  put  it,  for  he  never  did  any- 
thing unworthy  of  the  name  of  Jocelyn!" 

The  clergyman  thought  a  moment. 

"You  are  not  Miss  Jocelyn,  then?"  he  said. 

She  met  his  gaze  with  a  sorrowful  calmness. 

"No.  I  am  nobody.  I  have  not  even  been  bap- 
tised." 

He  sprang  up  from  his  chair,  horrified. 

"Not  baptised!"  he  exclaimed — "Not  baptised! 
Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  Farmer  Jocelyn  never 
attended  to  this  imperative  and  sacred  duty  on  your 
behalf? — that  he  allowed  •  you  to  grow  up  as  a 
heathen?" 

She  remained  unmoved  by  his  outburst. 

"I  am  not  a  heathen,"  she  said,  gently — "I  be- 
lieve in  God — as  Dad  believed.  I'm  sorry  I  have 
not  been  baptised — but  it  has  made  no  difference  to 
me  that  I  know  of " 

"No  difference!"  and  the  clergyman  rolled  up  his 
eyes  and  shook  his  head  ponderously — "You  poor 
unfortunate  girl,  it  has  made  all  the  difference  in 
the  world!  You  are  unregenerate — your  soul  is  not 
washed  clean — all  your  sins  are  upon  you,  and  you 
are  not  redeemed!" 

She  looked  at  him  tranquilly. 

"That  is  all  very  sad  for  me  if  it  is  true,"  she  said 
— "but  it  is  not  my  fault.  I  could  not  help  it.  Dad 
couldn't  help  it  either — he  did  not  know  what  to 
do.  He  expected  that  I  might  be  claimed  and  taken 
away  any  day — and  he  had  no  idea  what  name  to 
give  me— except  Innocent — which  is  a  name  I  sup- 
pose no  girl  ever  had  before.  He  used  to  get  money 
from  time  to  time  in  registered  envelopes,  bearing 
different  foreign  postmarks — and  there  was  always  a 
slip  of  paper  inside  with  the  words  'For  Innocent* 
written  on  it.  So  that  name  has  been  my  only  name. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     153 

You  see,  it  was  very  difficult  for  him — poor  Dad! — 
besides,  he  did  not  believe  in  baptism " 

"Then  he  was  an  infidel!"  declared  Mr.  Medwin, 
hotly. 

Her  serious  blue  eyes  regarded  him  reproachfully. 

"I  don't  think  you  should  say  that — it  isn't  quite 
kind  on  your  part,"  she  replied — "He  always 
thanked  God  for  prosperity,  and  never  complained 
when  things  went  wrong — that  is  not  being  an  in- 
fidel! Even  when  he  knew  he  was  hopelessly  ill, 
he  never  worried  anyone  about  it — he  was  only  just 
a  little  afraid — and  that  was  perfectly  natural. 
We're  all  a  little  afraid,  you  know — though  we  pre- 
tend we're  not — none  of  us  like  the  idea  of  leaving 
this  lovely  world  and  the  sunshine  for  ever.  Even 
Hamlet  was  afraid, — Shakespeare  makes  him  say 
so.  And  when  one  has  lived  all  one's  life  on  Briar 
Farm — such  a  sweet  peaceful  home! — one  can 
hardly  fancy  anything  better,  even  in  a  next  world ! 
No — Dad  was  not  an  infidel — please  do  not  think 
such  a  thing! — he  only  died  last  night — and  I  feel 
as  if  it  would  hurt  him." 

Mr.  Medwin  was  exceedingly  embarrassed  and 
annoyed — there  was  something  hi  the  girl's  quiet 
demeanour  that  suggested  a  certain  intellectual 
superiority  to  himself.  He  hummed  and  hawed, 
making  various  unpleasant  throaty  noises. 

"Well — to  me,  of  course,  it  is  a  very  shocking 
state  of  affairs,"  he  said,  irritably — "I  hardly  think 
I  can  be  of  any  use — or  consolation  to  you  in  the 
matters  you  have  spoken  of,  which  are  quite  out- 
side my  scope  altogether.  If  you  have  anything  to 
say  about  the  funeral  arrangements — but  I  presume 
Mr.  Clifford " 

"Mr.  Clifford  is  master  here  now,"  she  answered — 
"He  will  give  his  own  orders,  and  will  do  all  that  is 
best  and  wisest.  As  I  have  told  you,  I  am  a  name- 


154  INNOCENT 

less  nobody,  and  have  no  right  in  this  house  at  all. 
I'm  sorry  if  I  have  vexed  or  troubled  you — but  as 
you  called  I  thought  it  was  right  to  tell  you  how  I 
am  situated.  You  see,  when  poor  Dad  is  buried  I 
shall  be  going  away  at  once — and  I  had  an  idea  you 
might  perhaps  help  me — you  are  God's  minister." 

He  wrinkled  up  his  brows  and  looked  frowningly 
at  her. 

"You  are  leaving  Briar  Farm?"  he  asked. 

"I  must.    I  have  no  right  to  stay." 

"Is  Mr.  Clifford  turning  you  out?" 

A  faint,  sad  smile  crept  round  the  girl's  pretty, 
sensitive  mouth. 

"Ah,  no!  No,  indeed!  He  would  not  turn  a  dog 
out  that  had  once  taken  food  from  his  hand,"  she 
said.  "It  is  my  own  wish  entirely.  When  Dad  was 
alive  there  was  something  for  me  to  do  in  taking 
care  of  him — but  now ! — there  is  no  need  for  me — I 
should  feel  in  the  way — besides,  I  must  try  to  earn 
my  own  living." 

"What  do  you  propose  to  do?"  asked  Mr.  Med- 
win,  whose  manner  to  her  had  completely  changed 
from  the  politely  patronising  to  the  sharply  aggres- 
sive— "Do  you  want  a  situation?" 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  fat,  unpromising  face. 

"Yes — I  should  like  one  very  much — I  could  be  a 
lady's  maid,  I  think.  I  can  sew  very  well.  But — 
perhaps  you  would  baptise  me  first?" 

He  gave  a  sound  between  a  cough  and  a  grunt. 

"Eh?    Baptise  you?" 

"Yes, — because  if  I  am  unregenerate,  and  my 
soul  is  not  clean,  as  you  say,  no  one  would  take  me — 
not  even  as  a  lady's  maid." 

Her  quaint,  perfectly  simple  way  of  putting  the 
case  made  him  angry. 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  not  sufficiently  aware  of  the 
importance  of  the  sacred  rite," — he  said,  severely — 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     155 

"At  your  age  you  would  need  to  be  instructed  for 
some  weeks  before  you  could  be  considered  fit  and 
worthy.  Then, — you  tell  me  you  have  no  name! — 
Innocent  is  not  a  name  at  all  for  a  woman — I  do  not 
know  who  you  are — you  are  ignorant  of  your 
parentage — you  may  have  been  born  out  of  wed- 
lock  " 

She  coloured  deeply. 

"I  am  not  sure  of  that,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone. 

"No — of  course  you  are  not  sure, — but  I  should 
say  the  probability  is  that  you  are  illegitimate" — 
and  the  reverend  gentleman  took  up  his  hat  to  go. 
"The  whole  business  is  very  perplexing  and  diffi- 
cult. However,  I  will  see  what  can  be  done  for  you 
— but  you  are  in  a  very  awkward  corner! — very 
awkward  indeed!  Life  will  not  be  very  easy  for 
you,  I  fear!" 

"I  do  not  expect  ease,"  she  replied — "I  have  been 
very  happy  till  now — and  I  am  grateful  for  the  past. 
I  must  make  my  own  future." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  looked  out 
through  the  open  window  at  the  fair  garden  which 
she  herself  had  tended  for  so  long — and  she  saw  the 
clergyman's  portly  form  through  a  mist  of  sorrow 
as  in  half-hearted  fashion  he  bade  her  good-day. 

"I  hope — I  fervently  trust — that  God  will  sup- 
port you  in  your  bereavement,"  he  said,  unctuously 
— "I  had  intended  before  leaving  to  offer  up  a 
prayer  with  you  for  the  soul  of  the  departed  and  for 
your  own  soul — but  the  sad  fact  of  your  being  un- 
baptised  places  me  in  a  difficulty.  But  I  shall  not 
fail  personally  to  ask  our  Lord  to  prepare  you  for 
the  unfortunate  change  in  your  lot!" 

"Thank  you!"  she  replied,  quietly — and  without 
further  salute  he  left  her. 

She  stood  for  a  moment  considering — then  sat 
down  by  the  window,  looking  at  the  radiant  flower- 


156  INNOCENT 

beds,  with  all  their  profusion  of  blossom.  She  won- 
dered dreamily  how  they  could  show  such  brave, 
gay  colouring  when  death  was  in  the  house,  and  the 
aching  sense  of  loss  and  sorrow  weighted  the  air 
as  with  darkness.  A  glitter  of  white  wings  flashed 
before  her  eyes,  and  her  dove  alighted  on  the  win- 
dow-sill,— she  stretched  out  her  hand  and  the  petted 
bird  stepped  on  her  little  rosy  palm  with  all  its  ac- 
customed familiarity  and  confidence.  She  caressed 
it  tenderly. 

"Poor  Cupid!"  she  murmured — "You  are  like  me 
— you  are  unregenerate ! — you  have  never  been  bap- 
tised!— your  soul  has  not  been  washed  clean! — and 
all  your  sins  are  on  your  head!  Yes,  Cupid! — we 
are  very  much  alike! — for  I  don't  suppose  you  know 
your  own  father  and  mother  any  more  than  I  know 
mine!  And  yet  God  made  you — and  He  has  taken 
care  of  you — so  far!" 

She  stroked  the  dove's  satiny  plumage  gently — 
and  then  drew  back  a  little  into  shadow  as  she  saw 
Robin  Clifford  step  out  from  the  porch  into  the 
garden  and  hurriedly  interrupt  the  advance  of  a 
woman  who  just  then  pushed  open  the  outer  gate — 
a  slatternly-looking  creature  with  dark  dishevelled 
hair  and  a  face  which  might  have  been  handsome, 
but  for  its  unmistakable  impress  of  drink  and  dissi- 
pation. 

"Eh,  Mr.  Clifford— it's  you,  is  it?"  she  exclaimed, 
in  shrill  tones.  "An'  Farmer  Jocelyn's  dead! — 
who'd  a'  thought  it!  But  I'd  'ave  'ad  a  bone  to 
pick  with  'im  this  mornin',  if  he'd  been  livin' — that 
I  would! — givin'  sack  to  Ned  Landon  without  a 
warning  to  me!" 

Innocent  leaned  forward,  listening  eagerly,  with 
an  uncomfortably  beating  heart.  Through  all  the 
miserable,  slow,  and  aching  hours  that  had  elapsed 
since  Hugo  Jocelyn's  death,  there  had  been  a  secret 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     157 

anxiety  in  her  mind  concerning  Ned  Landon  and 
the  various  possibilities  involved  in  his  return  to 
the  farm,  when  he  should  learn  that  his  employer 
was  no  more,  and  that  Robin  was  sole  master. 

"I've  come  up  to  speak  with  ye,"  continued  the 
woman, — "It's  pretty  'ard  on  me  to  be  left  in  the 
ditch,  with  a  man  tumbling  ye  off  his  horse  an'  ridin' 
away  where  ye  can't  get  at  'im!"  She  laughed 
harshly.  "Ned's  gone  to  'Merriker!" 

"Gone  to  America!" — Robin's  voice  rang  out  in 
sharp  accents  of  surprise — "Ned  Landon?  Why, 
when  did  you  hear  that?" 

"Just  now — his  own  letter  came  with  the  carrier's 
cart — he  left  the  town  last  night  and  takes  ship 
from  Southampton  to-day.  And  why?  Because 
Farmer  Jocelyn  gave  him  five  hundred  pounds  to 
do  it!  So  there's  some  real  news  for  ye!" 

"Five  hundred  pounds!"  echoed  Clifford — "My 
Uncle  Hugo  gave  him  five  hundred  pounds!" 

"Ay,  ye  may  stare!" — and  the  woman  laughed 
again — "And  the  devil  has  taken  it  all, — except  a 
five-pun'  note  which  he  sends  to  me  to  'keep  me 
goin','  he  says.  Like  his  cheek!  I'm  not  his  wife, 
that's  true! — but  I'm  as  much  as  any  wife — an' 
tkere's  the  kid " 

Robin  glanced  round  apprehensively  at  the  open 
window. 

"Hush!"  he  said— "don't  talk  so  loud " 

"The  dead  can't  hear,"  she  said,  scornfully — "an* 
Ned  says  in  his  letter  that  he's  been  sent  off  all  on 
account  of  you  an'  your  light  o'  love — Innocent, 
she's  called — a  precious  'innocent'  she  is! — an'  that 
the  old  man  has  paid  'im  to  go  away  an'  'old  his 
tongue!  So  it's  all  your  fault,  after  all,  that  I'm 
left  with  the  kid  to  rub  along  anyhow; — he  might 
'ave  married  me  in  a  while,  if  he'd  stayed.  I'm  only 
Jenny  o'  Mill-Dykes  now — just  as  I've  always  been 


158  INNOCENT 

— the  toss  an'  catch  of  every  man! — but  I  'ad  a  grip 
on  Ned  with  the  kid,  an'  he'd  a'  done  me  right  in  the 
end  if  you  an'  your  precious  'innocent'  'adn't  been 
in  the  way " 

Robin  made  a  quick  stride  towards  her. 

"Go  out  of  this  place!"  he  said,  fiercely — "How 
dare  you  come  here  with  such  lies!" 

He  stopped,  half  choked  with  rage. 

Jenny  looked  at  him  and  laughed — then  snapped 
her  fingers  in  his  face. 

"Lies,  is  it?"  she  said — "Well,  lies  make  good 
crops,  an'  Farmer  Jocelyn's  money'll  'elp  them  to 
grow!  Lies,  indeed!  An'  how  dare  I  come  here? 
Why,  because  your  old  uncle  is  stiff  an'  cold  an' 
can't  speak  no  more — an'  no  one  would  know  what 
'ad  become  o'  Ned  Landon  if  I  wasn't  here  to  tell 
them  an'  show  his  own  letter!  I'll  tell  them  all, 
right  enough !— you  bet  your  life  I  will!" 

She  turned  her  back  on  him  and  began  to  walk, 
or  rather  slouch,  out  of  the  garden.  He  went  up 
close  to  her,  his  face  white  with  passion. 

"If  you  say  one  word  about  Miss  Jocelyn " 

he  began. 

"Miss  Jocelyn!"  she  exclaimed,  shrilly — "That's 
good! — we  are  grand!" — and  she  dropped  him  a 
mock  curtsey — "Miss  Jocelyn!  There  ain't  no 
'Miss  Jocelyn,'  an'  you  know  it  as  well  as  I  do !  So 
don't  try  to  fool  me!  Look  here,  Mr.  Robin  Clif- 
ford"— and  she  confronted  him,  with  arms  akimbo — 
"you're  not  a  Jocelyn  neither! — there's  not  a  Joce- 
lyn left  o'  the  old  stock — they're  all  finished  with 
the  one  lyin'  dead  upstairs  yonder — and  I'll  tell  ye 
what! — you  an'  your  'innocent'  are  too  'igh  an* 
mighty  altogether  for  the  likes  o'  we  poor  villagers 
— seein'  ye  ain't  got  nothin'  to  boast  of,  neither  of 
ye!  You've  lost  me  my  man — an'  I'll  let  everyone 
know  how  an'  why!" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     159 

With  that  she  went,  banging  the  gate  after  her — 
and  Clifford  stood  inert,  furious  within  himself,  yet 
powerless  to  do  anything  save  silently  endure  the 
taunts  she  had  flung  at  him.  He  could  have  cursed 
himself  for  the  folly  he  had  been  guilty  of  in  telling 
his  uncle  about  the  fight  between  him  and  Landon 
— for  he  saw  now  that  the  old  man  had  secretly 
worried  over  the  possible  harm  that  might  be  done  to 
Innocent  through  Landon's  knowledge  of  her  real 
story,  which  he  had  learned  through  his  spying  and 
listening.  Whatever  that  harm  could  be,  was  now 
intensified — and  scandal,  beginning  as  a  mere  whis- 
pered suggestion,  would  increase  to  loud  and  positive 
assertion  ere  long.  , 

"Poor  Uncle  Hugo!"  and  the  young  man  looked 
up  sorrowfully  at  the  darkened  windows  of  the  room 
where  lay  in  still  and  stern  repose  all  that  was  mor- 
tal of  the  last  of  the  Jocelyns — "What  a  mistake  you 
have  made!  You  meant  so  well! — you  thought  you 
were  doing  a  wise  thing  in  sending  Landon  away — 
and  at  such  a  cost! — but  you  did  not  know  what  he 
had  left  behind  him — Jenny  of  the  Mill-Dykes, 
whose  wicked  tongue  would  blacken  an  angel's  repu- 
tation!" 

A  hand  touched  him  lightly  on  the  arm  from  be- 
hind. He  turned  swiftly  round  and  confronted  In- 
nocent— she  stood  like  a  little  figure  of  white  porce- 
lain, holding  her  dove  against  her  breast. 

"Poor  Robin!"  she  said,  softly — "Don't  worry! 
I  heard  everything." 

He  stared  down  upon  her. 

"You  heard ?" 

"Yes.  I  was  at  the  open  window  there — I 
couldn't  help  hearing.  It  was  Jenny  of  the  Mill- 
Dykes — I  know  her  by  sight,  but  not  to  speak  to — 
Priscilla  told  me  something  about  her.  She  isn't  a 
nice  woman,  is  she?" 


160  INNOCENT 

"Nice?"  Robin  gasped— "No,  indeed!  She  is 

Well! — I  must  not  tell  you  what  she  is!" 

"No ! — you  must  not — I  don't  want  to  hear.  But 
she  ought  to  be  Ned  Landon's  wife — I  understood 
that! — and  she  has  a  little  child.  I  understood  that 
too.  And  she  knows  everything  about  me — and 
about  that  night  when  you  climbed  up  on  my  win- 
dow-sill and  sat  there  so  long.  It  was  a  pity  you  did 
that,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes! — when  there  was  a  dirty  spy  in  hiding!" 
said  Robin,  hotly. 

"Ah! — we  never  imagined  such  a  thing  could  be 
on  Briar  Farm!" — and  she  sighed — "but  it  can't  be 
helped  now.  Poor  darling  Dad!  He  parted  with  all 
that  money  to  get  rid  of  the  man  he  thought  would 
do  me  wrong.  Oh  Robin,  he  loved  me!" 

The  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes  and  fell  slowly  like 
bright  raindrops  on  the  downy  feathers  of  the  dove 
she  held. 

"He  loved  you,  and  I  love  you!"  murmured 
Robin,  tenderly.  "Dear  little  girl,  come  indoors 
and  don't  cry  any  more!  Your  sweet  eyes  will  be 
spoilt,  and  Uncle  Hugo  could  never  bear  to  see  you 
weeping.  All  the  tears  in  the  world  won't  bring 
him  back  to  us  here, — but  we  can  do  our  best  to 
please  him  still,  so  that  if  his  spirit  has  ever  been 
troubled,  it  can  be  at  peace.  Come  in  and  let  us 
talk  quietly  together — we  must  look  at  things 
squarely  and  straightly,  and  we  must  try  to  do  all 
the  things  he  would  have  wished " 

"All  except  one  thing,"  she  said,  as  they  went  to- 
gether side  by  side  into  the  house — "the  one  thing 
that  can  never  be!" 

"The  one  thing — the  chief  thing  that  shall  be!" 
answered  Robin,  fiercely — "Innocent,  you  must  be 
my  wife!" 

She  lifted  her  tear-wet  eyes  to  his  with  a  grave 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     161 

and  piteous  appeal  which  smote  him  to  the  heart  by 
its  intense  helplessness  and  sorrow. 

"Robin, — dear  Robin!"  she  said — "Don't  make  it 
harder  for  me  than  it  is!  Think  for  a  moment!  I 
am  nameless — a  poor,  unbaptised,  deserted  creature 
who  was  flung  on  your  uncle's  charity  eighteen  years 
ago — I  am  a  stranger  and  intruder  in  this  old  historic 
place — I  have  no  right  to  be  here  at  all — only 
through  your  uncle's  kindness  and  yours.  And  now 
things  have  happened  so  cruelly  for  me  that  I  am 
supposed  to  be  to  you — what  I  am  not," — and  the 
deep  colour  flushed  her  cheeks  and  brow.  "I  have 
somehow — through  no  fault  of  my  own — lost  my 
name! — though  I  had  no  name  to  lose — except  In- 
nocent!— which,  as  the  clergyman  told  me,  is  no 
name  for  a  woman.  Do  you  not  see  that  if  I  married 
you,  people  would  say  it  was  because  you  were  com- 
pelled to  marry  me? — that  you  had  gone  too  far 
to  escape  from  me? — that,  in  fact,  we  were  a  sort  of 
copy  of  Ned  Landon  and  Jenny  of  the  Mill-Dykes?" 

"Innocent!" 

He  uttered  the  name  in  a  tone  of  indignant  and 
despairing  protest.  They  were  hi  the  oak  parlour 
together,  and  she  went  slowly  to  the  window  and  let 
her  pet  dove  fly. 

"Ah,  yes!  Innocent!"  she  repeated,  sadly — 
"But  you  must  let  me  go,  Robin! — just  as  I  have  let 
my  dove  fly,  so  you  must  let  me  fly  also — far, 
far  away!" 


CHAPTER   IX 

No  more  impressive  scene  was  ever  witnessed  in  a 
country  village  than  the  funeral  of  "the  last  of  the 
Jocelyns," — impressive  in  its  solemnity,  simplicity 
and  lack  of  needless  ceremonial.  The  coffin,  contain- 
ing all  that  was  mortal  of  the  sturdy,  straightforward 
farmer,  whose  "old-world"  ways  of  work  and  up- 
right dealing  with  his  men  had  for  so  long  been  the 
wonder  and  envy  of  the  district,  was  placed  in  a  low 
waggon  and  covered  with  a  curiously  wrought,  hand- 
woven  purple  cloth  embroidered  with  the  arms  of 
the  French  knight  "Amadis  de  Jocelin,"  tradition 
asserting  that  this  cloth  had  served  as  a  pall  for  every 
male  Jocelyn  since  his  time.  The  waggon  was  drawn 
by  four  glossy  dark  brown  cart-horses,  each  animal 
having  known  its  master  as  a  friend  whose  call  it 
was  accustomed  to  obey,  following  him  wherever  he 
went.  On  the  coffin  itself  was  laid  a  simple  wreath 
of  the  "Glory"  roses  gathered  from  the  porch  and 
walls  of  Briar  Farm,  and  offered,  as  pencilled  faintly 
on  a  little  scroll — "With  a  life's  love  and  sorrow  from 
Innocent."  A  long  train  of  mourners,  including  la- 
bourers, farm-lads,  shepherds,  cowherds,  stable-men 
and  villagers  generally,  followed  the  corpse  to  the 
grave, — Robin  Clifford,  as  chief  mourner  and  next- 
of-kin  to  the  dead  man,  walking  behind  the  waggon 
with  head  down-bent  and  a  face  on  which  intense 
grief  had  stamped  such  an  impress  as  to  make  it  look 
far  older  than  his  years  warranted.  Groups  of 
women  stood  about,  watching  the  procession  with 
hard  eager  eyes,  and  tongues  held  in  check  for  a 

162 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     163 

while,  only  to  wag  more  vigorously  than  ever  when 
the  ceremony  should  be  over.  Innocent,  dressed  in 
deep  black  for  the  first  tune  in  her  life,  went  by  her- 
self to  the  churchyard,  avoiding  the  crowd — and,  hid- 
den away  among  concealing  shadows,  she  heard  the 
service  and  watched  all  the  proceedings  dry-eyed 
and  heart-stricken.  She  could  not  weep  any  more 
— there  seemed  no  tears  left  to  relieve  the  weight  of 
her  burning  brain.  Robin  had  tenderly  urged  her  to 
walk  with  him  in  the  funeral  procession,  but  she 
refused. 

"How  can  I! — how  dare  I!"  she  said — "I  am  not 
his  daughter— I  am  nothing!  The  cruel  people  here 
know  it! — and  they  would  only  say  my  presence 
was  an  insult  to  the  dead.  Yes! — they  would — 
now!  He  loved  me! — and  I  loved  him! — but  no- 
body outside  ourselves  thinks  about  that,  or  cares. 
You  would  hardly  believe  it,  but  I  have  already 
been  told  how  wicked  it  was  of  me  to  be  dressed 
in  white  when  the  clergyman  called  to  see  me  the 
morning  after  Dad's  death — well,  I  had  no  other  col- 
our to  wear  till  Priscilla  got  me  this  sad  black  gown 
— it  made  me  shudder  to  put  it  on — it  is  like  the 
darkness  itself! — you  know  Dad  always  made  me 
wear  white — and  I  feel  as  if  I  were  vexing  him  some- 
how by  wearing  black.  Oh,  Robin,  be  kind! — you 
always  are ! — let  me  go  by  myself  and  watch  Dad  put 
to  rest  where  nobody  can  see  me.  For  after  they 
have  laid  him  down  and  left  him,  they  will  be  talk- 
ing!" 

She  was  right  enough  in  this  surmise.  Not  one 
who  saw  Farmer  Jocelyn's  coffin  lowered  into  the 
grave  failed  to  notice  the  wreath  of  "Glory"  roses 
that  went  with  it — "from  Innocent" ; — and  her  name 
was  whispered  from  mouth  to  mouth  with  meaning 
looks  and  suggestive  nods.  And  when  Robin,  with 
tears  thick  in  his  eyes,  flung  the  first  handfuls  of 


164  INNOCENT 

earth  rattling  down  on  the  coffin  lid,  his  heart  ached 
to  see  the  lovely  fragrant  blossoms  crushed  under 
the  heavy  scattered  mould,  for  it  seemed  to  his  fore- 
boding mind  that  they  were  like  the  delicate 
thoughts  and  fancies  of  the  girl  he  loved  being  cov- 
ered by  the  soiling  mud  of  the  world's  cruelty  and 
slander,  and  killed  in  the  cold  and  darkness  of  a 
sunless  solitude. 

All  was  over  at  last, — the  final  prayer  was  said — 
the  final  benediction  was  spoken,  and  the  mourners 
gradually  dispersed.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Medwin, 
assisted  by  his  young  curate,  had  performed  the 
ceremony,  and  before  retiring  to  the  vestry  to  take 
off  his  surplice,  he  paused  by  the  newly-made  grave 
to  offer  his  hand  and  utter  suitable  condolences  to 
Robin  Clifford. 

"It  is  a  great  and  trying  change  for  you,"  he  said. 
"I  suppose" — this  tentatively — "I  suppose  you  will 
go  on  with  the  farm?" 

"As  long  as  I  live,"  answered  Clifford,  looking 
him  steadily  in  the  face,  "Briar  Farm  will  be  what 
it  has  always  been." 

Mr.  Medwin  gave  him  a  little  appreciative  bow. 

"We  are  very  glad  of  that — very  glad  indeed!" 
he  said — "Briar  Farm  is  a  great  feature — a  very 
great  feature! — indeed,  one  may  say  it  is  an  histori- 
cal possession.  Something  would  be  lacking  hi  the 
neighbourhood  if  it  were  not  kept  up  to  its  old  tra- 
dition and — er — reputation.  I  think  we  feel  that — 
I  think  we  feel  it,  do  we  not,  Mr.  Forwood?"  here 
turning  to  his  curate  with  affable  condescension. 

Mark  Forwood,  a  clever-looking  young  man  with 
kind  eyes  and  intelligent  features,  looked  at  Robin 
sympathetically. 

"I  am  quite  sure,"  he  said,  "that  Mr.  Clifford  will 
take  as  much  pride  in  the  fine  old  place  as  his  uncle 
did — but  is  there  not  Miss  Jocelyn? — the  daughter 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     165 

will  probably  inherit  the  farm,  will  she  not,  as  near- 
est of  kin?" 

Mr.  Medwin  coughed  obtrusively — and  Clifford 
felt  the  warm  blood  rushing  to  his  brows.  Yet  he  re- 
solved that  the  truth  should  be  told,  for  the  honour 
of  the  dead  man's  name. 

"She  is  not  my  uncle's  daughter,"  he  said, 
quietly — "My  uncle  never  married.  He  adopted 
her  when  she  was  an  infant — and  she  was  as  dear  to 
him  as  if  she  had  been  his  own  child.  Of  course  she 
will  be  amply  provided  for — there  can  be  no  doubt 
of  that." 

Mr.  Forwood  raised  his  eyes  and  eyebrows  to- 
gether. 

"You  surprise  me!"  he  murmured.  "Then — there 
is  no  Miss  Jocelyn?" 

Again  Robin  coloured.  But  he  answered,  com- 
posedly— 

"There  is  no  Miss  Jocelyn." 

Mr.  Medwin's  cough  here  troubled  him  consider- 
ably, and  though  it  was  a  fine  day,  he  expressed  a 
mild  fear  that  he  was  standing  too  long  by  the 
open  grave  in  his  surplice — he,  therefore,  retired, 
his  curate  following  him, — whereupon  the  sexton,  a 
well-known  character  in  the  village,  approached  to 
finish  the  sad  task  of  committing  "ashes  to  ashes, 
dust  to  dust." 

"Eh,  Mr.  Clifford,"  remarked  this  worthy,  as  he 
stuck  his  spade  down  in  the  heaped-up  earth  and 
leaned  upon  it, — "it's  a  black  day,  forbye  the  sum- 
mer sun!  I  never  thort  I'd  a'  thrown  the  mouls  on 
the  last  Jocelyn.  For  last  he  is,  an'  there'll  never  be 
another  like  'im!" 

"You're  right  there,  Wixton,"  said  Robin,  sadly — 
"I  know  the  place  can  never  be  the  same  without 
him.  I  shall  do  my  best — but " 

"Ay,  yell  do  your  best,"  agreed  Wixton,  with  a 


166  INNOCENT 

foreboding  shake  of  his  grizzled  head — "but  you're 
not  a  Jocelyn,  an'  your  best'll  be  but  a  bad  crutch, 
though  there's  Jocelyn  blood  hi  ye  by  ye'r  mother's 
side.  Howsomever  it's  not  the  same  as  the  male 
line,  do  what  we  will  an'  say  what  we  like !  It's  not 
your  fault,  no,  lad!" — this  with  a  pitying  look — "an' 
no  one's  blamin'  ye  for  what  can't  be  'elped — but 
it's  not  a  thing  to  be  gotten  over." 

Robin's  grave  nod  of  acquiescence  was  more  elo- 
quent than  speech. 

Wixton  dug  his  spade  a  little  deeper  into  the  pile 
of  earth. 

"If  Farmer  Jocelyn  'ad  been  a  marryin'  man, 
why,  that  would  a'  been  the  right  thing,"  he  went 
on — "He  might  a'  had  a  fine  strappin'  son  to  come 
arter  'im,  a  real  born-an'-bred  Jocelyn " 

Robin  listened  with  acute  interest.  Why  did  not 
Wixton  mention  Innocent?  Did  he  know  she 
was  not  a  Jocelyn?  He  waited,  and  Wixton  went 
on — 

"But,  ye  see,  'e  wouldn't  have  none  o'  that.  An' 
he  took  the  little  gel  as  was  left  with  'im  the  night  o' 
the  great  storm  nigh  eighteen  years  ago  that 
blew  down  three  of  our  biggest  elms  in  the  church- 
yard  " 

"Did  you  know?"  exclaimed  Clifford,  eagerly — 
"Did  you  see ?" 

"I  saw  a  man  on  'orseback  ride  up  to  Briar  Farm, 
'oldin'  a  baby  in  front  o'  him  with  one  hand,  and 
the  reins  in  t'other — an'  he  came  out  from  the  farm 
without  the  baby.  Then  one  mornin'  when  Farmer 
Jocelyn  was  a-walkin''with  the  baby  in  the  fields  I 
said  to  'im,  secret-like — 'That  ain't  your  child!'  an' 
he  sez — 'Ow  do  you  know  it  ain't?'  An'  I  sez — 'Be- 
cause I  saw  it  come  with  a  stranger' — an'  he  laughed 
an'  said — 'It  may  be  mine  for  all  that!'  But  I  knew 
it  worn't!  A  nice  little  girl  she  is  too, — Miss  Inno- 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     167 

cent — poor  soul!  I'm  downright  sorry  for  'er,  for 
she  ain't  got  many  friends  in  this  village." 

"Why?"  Robin  asked,  half  mechanically. 

"Why?  Well,  she's  a  bit  too  dainty-like  in  'er 
ways  for  one  thing — then  there's  gels  who  are  arter 
you,  Mister  Clifford! — ay,  ay,  ye  know  they  are! — 
sharp  'ussies,  all  of  'em! — an'  they  can't  abide  'er, 
for  they  thinks  you're  a-goin'  to  marry  'er! — Lord 
forgive  me  that  I  should  be  chitterin'  'ere  about 
marryin'  over  a  buryin'! — but  that's  the  trouble— 
an'  it's  the  trouble  all  the  world  over,  wimmin 
wantin'  a  man,  an'  mad  for  their  lives  when  they 
thinks  another  woman's  arter  'im!  Eh,  eh!  We 
should  all  get  along  better  if  there  worn't  no  wimmin 
jealousies,  but  bein'  men  we've  got  to  put  up  with 
'em.  Are  ye  goin'  now,  Mister? — Well,  the  Lord  love 
ye  an'  comfort  ye! — ye'll  never  meet  a  finer  man 
this  side  the  next  world  than  the  one  I'm  puttin'  a 
cold  quilt  on!" 

Silently  Clifford  turned  away,  heavy-hearted  and 
lost  in  perplexed  thought.  What  was  best  to  be 
done  for  Innocent?  This  was  the  chief  question 
that  presented  itself  to  his  mind.  He  could  no  longer 
deny  the  fact  that  her  position  was  difficult — almost 
untenable.  Nameless,  and  seemingly  deserted  by  her 
kindred,  if  any  such  kindred  still  existed,  she  was 
absolutely  alone  in  life,  now  that  Hugo  Jocelyn  was 
no  more.  As  he  realised  this  to  its  fullest  intensity, 
the  deeper  and  more  passionate  grew  his  love  for 
her. 

"If  she  would  only  marry  me!"  he  said  under  his 
breath,  as  he  walked  home  slowly  from  the  church- 
yard— "It  was  Uncle  Hugo's  last  wish!" 

Then  across  his  brain  flashed  the  memory  of  Ned 
Landon  and  his  malignant  intention — born  of  baffled 
desire  and  fierce  jealousy — to  tarnish  the  fair  name 
of  the  girl  he  coveted, — then,  his  uncle's  quixotic 


168  INNOCENT 

and  costly  way  of  ridding  himself  of  such  an  enemy 
at  any  price.  He  understood  now  old  Jocelyn's 
talk  of  his  "bargain"  on  the  last  night  of  his  life, — 
and  what  a  futile  bargain  it  was,  after  all! — for  was 
not  Jenny  of  the  Mill-Dykes  fully  informed  of  the 
reason  why  the  bargain  was  made? — and  she,  the 
vilest-tongued  woman  in  the  whole  neighbourhood, 
would  take  delight  in  spreading  the  story  far  and 
wide.  Five  Hundred  Pounds  paid  down  as  "hush- 
money"! — so  she  would  report  it — thus,  even  if  he 
married  Innocent  it  would  be  under  the  shadow  of  a 
slur  and  slander.  What  was  wisest  to  do  under  the 
circumstances  he  could  not  decide — and  he  entered 
the  smiling  garden  of  Briar  Farm  with  the  saddest 
expression  on  his  face  that  anyone  had  ever  seen 
there.  Priscilla  met  him  as  he  came  towards  the 
house. 

"I  thought  ye'd  never  git  here,  Mister  Robin," 
she  said,  anxiously — "Ye  haven't  forgot  there's  folks 
in  the  hall  'avin'  their  'wake'  feed  an'  they'll  be 
wantin'  to  speak  wi'  ye  presently.  Mister  Bayliss, 
which  is  ye'r  uncle's  lawyer,  'e  wants  to  see  ye  mighty 
partikler,  an'  there  ain't  no  one  to  say  nothin'  to 
'em,  for  the  dear  little  Innocent,  she's  come  back 
from  the  cold  churchyard  like  a  little  image  o'  mar- 
ble, an'  she's  gone  an'  shut  'erself  up  in  'er  own 
room,  sayin'  'Ask  Mister  Robin  to  excuse  me' — poor 
child! — she's  fair  wore  out,  that  she  is!  An'  you 
come  into  the  big  'all  where  there's  the  meat  and 
the  wine  laid  out,  for  funeral  folk  eats  more  than 
weddin'  folk,  bein'  longer  about  it  an'  a  bit  solemner 
in  gettin'  of  it  down." 

Robin  looked  at  her  with  strained,  haggard  eyes. 

"Priscilla,"  he  said,  huskily — "Death  is  a  horrible 
thing!" 

"Ay,  that  it  is!"  and  Priscilla  wiped  the  tear- 
drops off  her  cheeks  with  a  corner  of  her  apron — "An' 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     169 

I've  often  thought  it  seems  a  silly  kind  o'  business  to 
bring  us  into  the  world  at  all  for  no  special  reason 
'cept  to  take  us  out  of  it  again  just  as  folks  'ave 
learned  to  know  us  a  bit  and  find  us  useful.  How- 
somever,  there's  no  arguin'  wi'  the  Almighty,  an' 
p'raps  it's  us  as  makes  the  worst  o'  death  instead  o' 
the  best  of  it.  Now  you  go  into  the  great  hall,  Mr. 
Robin — you're  wanted  there." 

He  went,  as  desired, — and  was  received  with  a 
murmur  of  sympathy  by  those  assembled — a  gather- 
ing made  up  of  the  head  men  about  the  farm,  and 
a  few  other  personages  less  familiar  to  the  village, 
but  fairly  well  known  to  him,  such  as  corn  and  cattle 
dealers  from  the  neighbouring  town  who  had  for 
many  years  done  business  with  Jocelyn  in  preference 
to  any  other  farmer.  These  came  forward  and  cor- 
dially shook  hands  with  Robin,  entering  at  once  into 
conversation  with  him  concerning  his  future  inten- 
tions. 

"We  should  like  things  to  go  on  the  same  as  if  th' 
old  man  were  alive,"  said  one,  a  miller, — "We  don't 
like  changes  after  all  these  years.  But  whether 
you're  up  to  it,  my  lad,  or  not,  we  don't  know — and 
time'll  prove " 

"Time  will  prove,"  answered  Clifford,  steadily. 
"You  may  rely  upon  it  that  Briar  Farm  will  be 
worked  on  the  same  methods  which  my  uncle  prac- 
tised and  approved — and  there  will  be  no  changes, 
except — the  inevitable  one" — and  he  sighed, — "the 
want  of  the  true  master's  brain  and  hand." 

"Eh  well!  You'll  do  your  best,  lad! — I'm  sure  of 
that!"  and  the  miller  grasped  his  hand  warmly — 
"And  we'll  all  stick  by  you!  There's  no  farm  like 
Briar  Farm  in  the  whole  country — that's  my 
opinion! — it  gives  the  finest  soil  and  the  soundest 
crops  to  be  got  anywhere — you  just  manage  it  as 
Farmer  Jocelyn  managed  it,  with  men's  work,  and 


170  INNOCENT 

you'll  come  to  no  harm!  And,  as  I  say,  we'll  all 
stick  by  you!" 

Robin  thanked  him,  and  then  moved  slowly  in 
and  out  among  the  other  funeral  guests,  saying 
kindly  things,  and  in  his  quiet,  manly  way  creating 
a  good  impression  among  them,  and  making  more 
friends  than  he  himself  was  aware  of.  Presently 
Mr.  Bayliss,  a  mild-looking  man  with  round  specta- 
cles fixed  very  closely  up  against  his  eyes,  approached 
him,  beckoning  him  with  one  finger. 

"When  you're  ready,  Mr.  Clifford,"  he  said,  "I 
should  like  to  see  you  in  the  best  parlour — and  the 
young  lady — I  believe  she  is  called  Innocent? — yes, 
yes ! — and  the  young  lady  also.  Oh,  there's  no  hurry 
— no  hurry! — better  wait  till  the  guests  have  gone, 
as  what  I  have  to  say  concerns  only  yourself — and 
— er — yes — er,  the  young  lady  before  mentioned. 
And  also  a— a" — here  he  pulled  out  a  note-book  from 
his  pocket  and  studied  it  through  his  owl-like  glasses 
— "yes! — er,  yes! — a  Miss  Priscilla  Friday — she 
must  be  present,  if  she  can  be  found — I  believe  she 
is  on  the  premises?" 

"Priscilla  is  our  housekeeper,"  said  Robin — "and  a 
faithful  friend." 

"Yes — I — er — thought  so— a  devoted  friend," 
murmured  Mr.  Bayliss,  meditatively — "and  what  a 
thing  it  is  to  have  a  devoted  friend,  Mr.  Clifford! 
Your  uncle  was  a  careful  man! — very  careful! — he 
knew  whom  to  trust — he  thoroughly  knew!  Yes — 
we  don't  all  know — but  he  did!" 

Robin  made  no  comment.  The  murmuring  talk  of 
the  funeral  party  went  on,  buzzing  in  his  ears  like 
the  noise  of  an  enormous  swarm  of  bees — he  watched 
men  eating  and  drinking  the  good  things  Priscilla 
had  provided  for  the  "honour  of  the  farm" — and 
then,  on  a  sudden  impulse  he  slipped  out  of  the  hall 
and  upstairs  to  Innocent's  room,  where  he  knocked 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     171 

softly  at  the  door.  She  opened  it  at  once,  and  stood 
before  him — her  face  white  as  a  snowdrop,  and  her 
eyes  heavy  and  strained  with  the  weight  of  unshed 
tears. 

"Dear,"  he  said,  gently — "you  will  be  wanted 
downstairs  in  a  few  minutes — Mr.  Bayliss  wishes  you 
to  be  present  when  he  reads  Uncle  Hugo's  will." 

She  made  a  little  gesture  of  pain  and  dissent. 

"I  do  not  want  to  hear  it,"  she  said — "but  I  will 
come." 

He  looked  at  her  with  anxiety  and  tenderness. 

"You  have  eaten  nothing  since  early  morning; 
you  look  so  pale  and  weak — let  me  get  you  some- 
thing— a  glass  of  wine." 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  answered — "I  could  not 
touch  a  morsel — not  just  yet.  Oh,  Robin,  it  hurts 
me  to  hear  all  those  voices  in  the  great  hall! — men 
eating  and  drinking  there,  as  if  he  were  still  alive! — 
and  they  have  only  just  laid  him  down  in  the  cold 
earth — so  cold  and  dark!" 

She  shuddered  violently. 

"I  do  not  think  it  is  right,"  she  went  on — "to  al- 
low people  to  love  each  other  at  all  if  death  must 
separate  them  for  ever.  It  seems  only  a  cruelty  and 
wickedness.  Now  that  I  have  seen  what  death  can 
do,  I  will  never  love  anyone  again!" 

"No — I  suppose  you  will  not,"  he  said,  somewhat 
bitterly — "yet,  you  have  never  known  what  love  is — 
you  do  not  understand  it." 

She  sighed,  deeply. 

"Perhaps  not!"  she  said — "And  I'm  not  sure  that 
I  want  to  understand  it — not  now.  What  love  I 
had  in  my  heart  is  all  buried — with  Dad  and  the 
roses.  I  am  not  the  same  girl  any  more — I  feel  a 
different  creature — grown  quite  old!" 

"You  cannot  feel  older  than  I  do,"  he  replied — 
"but  you  do  not  think  of  me  at  all, — why  should 


172  INNOCENT 

you?  I  never  used  to  think  you  selfish,  Innocent! — 
you  have  always  been  so  careful  and  considerate  of 
the  feelings  of  others — yet  now! — well! — are  you  not 
so  much  absorbed  in  your  own  grief  as  to  be  forget- 
ful of  mine?  For  mine  is  a  double  grief — a  double 
loss — I  have  lost  my  uncle  and  best  friend — and  I 
shall  lose  you  because  you  will  not  love  me,  though 
I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  only  want  to  make 
you  happy!" 

Her  sad  eyes  met  his  with  a  direct,  half-reproach- 
ful gaze. 

"You  think  me  selfish?" 

"No! — no,  Innocent! — but- " 

"I  see!"  she  said — "You  think  I  ought  to  sacrifice 
myself  to  you,  and  to  Dad's  last  wish.  You  would 
expect  me  to  spoil  your  life  by  marrying  you  un- 
willingly and  without  love " 

"I  tell  you  you  know  nothing  about  love!"  he 
interrupted  her,  impatiently. 

"So  you  imagine,"  she  answered  quietly — "but  I 
do  know  one  thing — and  it  is  that  no  one  who  really 
loves  a  person  wishes  to  see  that  person  unhappy. 
To  love  anybody  means  that  above  all  things  in  the 
world  you  desire  to  see  the  beloved  one  well  and 
prosperous  and  full  of  gladness.  You  cannot  love  me 
or  you  would  not  wish  me  to  do  a  thing  that  would 
make  me  miserable.  If  I  loved  you,  I  would  marry 
you  and  devote  my  life  to  yours — but  I  do  not  love 
you,  and,  therefore,  I  should  only  make  you  wretched 
if  I  became  your  wife.  Do  not  let  us  talk  of  this  any 
more — it  tires  me  out!" 

She  passed  her  hand  over  her  forehead  with  a 
weary  gesture. 

"It  is  wrong  to  talk  of  ourselves  at  all  when  Dad 
is  only  just  buried,"  she  continued.  "You  say  Mr. 
Bayliss  wants  to  see  me — very  well! — in  a  few  min- 
utes I  will  come." 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     173 

She  stepped  back  inside  her  little  room  and  shut 
the  door.  Clifford  walked  away,  resentful  and 
despairing.  There  was  something  in  her  manner 
that  struck  him  as  new  and  foreign  to  her  usual  sweet 
and  equable  nature, — a  grave  composure,  a  kind  of 
intellectual  hardness  that  he  had  never  before  seen 
in  her.  And  he  wondered  what  such  a  change  might 
portend. 

Downstairs,  the  funeral  party  had  broken  up — 
many  of  the  mourners  had  gone,  and  others  were 
going.  Some  lingered  to  the  last  possible  moment 
that  their  intimacy  or  friendship  with  the  deceased 
would  allow,  curious  to  hear  something  of  the  will — 
what  the  amount  of  the  net  cash  was  that  had  been 
left,  and  how  it  had  been  disposed.  But  Mr.  Bayliss, 
the  lawyer,  was  a  cautious  man,  and  never  gave  him- 
self away  at  any  point.  To  all  suggestive  hints  and 
speculative  theories  he  maintained  a  dignified  re- 
serve— and  it  was  not  until  the  last  of  the  guests 
had  departed  that  he  made  his  way  to  the  vacant 
"best  parlour,"  and  sat  there  with  his  chair  pulled 
well  up  to  the  table  and  one  or  two  legal-looking 
documents  in  front  of  him.  Robin  Clifford  joined 
him  there,  taking  a  seat  opposite  to  him — and  both 
men  waited  in  more  or  less  silence  till  the  door 
opened  softly  to  admit  Innocent,  who  came  in  with 
Priscilla. 

Mr.  Bayliss  rose. 

"I'm  sorry  to  have  to  disturb  you,  Miss — er — Miss 
Innocent,"  he  said,  with  some  awkwardness — "on 
this  sad  occasion " 

"It  is  no  trouble,"  she  answered,  gently — "if  I  can 
be  of  any  use " 

Mr.  Bayliss  waited  till  she  sat  down, — then  again 
seated  himself. 

"Well,  there  is  really  no  occasion  to  go  over  legal 
formalities,"  he  said,  opening  one  of  the  documents 


174  INNOCENT 

before  him — "Your  uncle,  Mr.  Clifford,  was  a  busi- 
ness man,  and  made  his  will  in  a  business-like  way. 
Briefly,  I  may  tell  you  that  Briar  Farm,  its  lands, 
buildings,  and  all  its  contents  are  left  to  you — who 
are  identified  thus — 'to  my  nephew,  Robin  Clifford, 
only  son  of  my  only  sister,  the  late  Elizabeth  Joce- 
lyn,  widow  of  John  Clifford,  wholesale  trader  in 
French  wines,  and  formerly  resident  in  the  City  of 
London,  on  condition  that  the  said  Robin  Clifford 
shall  keep  and  maintain  the  farm  and  house  as  they 
have  always  been  kept  and  maintained.  He  shall 
not  sell  any  part  of  the  land  for  building  purposes, 
nor  shall  he  dispose  of  any  of  the  furniture,  pewter, 
plate,  china,  glass,  or  other  effects  belonging  to  Briar 
Farm  House, — but  shall  carefully  preserve  the  same 
and  hand  them  down  to  his  lawful  heirs  in  succession 
on  the  same  terms  as  heretofore' — etc.,  etc., — yes! — 
well! — that  is  the  gist  of  the  business,  and  we  need 
not  go  over  the  details.  With  the  farm  and  lands 
aforesaid  he  leaves  the  sum  of  Twenty  Thousand 
Pounds " 

"Twenty  Thousand  Pounds!"  ejaculated  Robin, 
amazed — "Surely  my  uncle  was  never  so  rich !" 

"He  was  a  saving  man  and  a  careful  one,"  said 
Mr.  Bayliss,  calmly, — "You  may  take  it  for  granted, 
Mr.  Clifford,  that  his  money  was  made  through  the 
course  of  his  long  life,  in  a  thoroughly  honest  and 
straightforward  manner!" 

"Oh — that,  of  course! — but — Twenty  Thousand 
Pounds!" 

"It  is  a  nice  little  fortune,"  said  Mr.  Bayliss — 
"and  you  come  into  it  at  a  time  of  life  when  you  will 
be  able  to  make  good  use  of  it.  Especially  if  you 
should  be  inclined  to  marry " 

His  eyes  twinkled  meaningly  as  they  glanced  from 
Clifford's  face  to  that  of  Innocent — the  young  man's 
expression  was  absorbed  and  earnest,  but  the  girl 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     175 

looked  lost  and  far  away  in  a  dream  of  her  own. 

"I  shall  not  marry,"  said  Robin,  slowly — "I  shall 
use  the  money  entirely  for  the  good  of  the  farm 
and  the  work-people " 

"Then,  if  you  do  not  marry,  you  allow  the  tradi- 
tion of  heritage  to  lapse?"  suggested  Mr.  Bayliss. 

"It  has  lapsed  already,"  he  replied — "I  am  not  a 
real  descendant  of  the  Jocelyns " 

"By  the  mother's  side  you  are,"  said  Mr.  Bayliss — 
"and  your  mother  being  dead,  it  is  open  to  you  to 
take  the  name  of  Jocelyn  by  law,  and  continue  the 
lineage.  It  would  be  entirely  fair  and  reasonable." 

Robin  made  no  answer.  Mr.  Bayliss  settled  his 
glasses  more  firmly  on  his  nose,  and  went  on  with 
his  documents. 

"Mr.  Jocelyn  speaks  in  his  Last  Will  and  Testa- 
ment of  the  'great  love'  he  entertained  for  his 
adopted  child,  known  as  'Innocent' — and  he  gives  to 
her  all  that  is  contained  in  the  small  oak  chest  in  the 
best  parlour — this  is  the  best  parlour,  I  presume?" — 
looking  round — "Can  you  point  out  the  oak  chest 
mentioned?" 

Innocent  rose,  and  moved  to  a  corner,  where  she 
lifted  out  of  a  recess  a  small  quaintly  made  oaken 
casket,  brass-bound,  with  a  heavy  lock. 

Mr.  Bayliss  looked  at  it  with  a  certain  amount  of 
curiosity. 

"The  key?"  he  suggested— "I  believe  the  late  Mr. 
Jocelyn  always  wore  it  on  his  watch-chain." 

Robin  got  up  and  went  to  the  mantelpiece. 

"Here  is  my  uncle's  watch  and  chain,"  he  said,  in  a 
hushed  voice — "The  watch  has  stopped.  I  do  not 
intend  that  it  shall  ever  go  again — I  shall  keep  it 
put  by  with  the  precious  treasures  of  the  house." 

Mr.  Bayliss  made  no  remark  on  this  utterance, 
which  to  him  was  one  of  mere  sentiment — and  taking 
the  watch  and  chain  in  his  hand,  detached  there- 


176  INNOCENT 

from  a  small  key.  With  this  he  opened  the  oak  cas- 
ket— and  looked  carefully  inside.  Taking  out  a  sealed 
packet,  he  handed  it  to  Innocent. 

"This  is  for  you,"  he  said — "and  this  also" — here 
he  lifted  from  the  bottom  of  the  casket  a  flat  jewel- 
case  of  antique  leather  embossed  in  gold. 

"This,"  he  continued,  "Mr.  Jocelyn  explained  to 
me,  is  a  necklet  of  pearls — traditionally  believed  to 
have  been  given  by  the  founder  of  the  house,  Ama- 
dis  de  Jocelin,  to  his  wife  on  their  wedding-day.  It 
has  been  worn  by  every  bride  of  the  house  since.  I 
hope — yes — I  very  much  hope— it  will  be  worn  by 
the  young  lady  who  now  inherits  it." 

And  he  passed  the  jewel-case  over  the  table  to 
Innocent,  who  sat  silent,  with  the  sealed  packet  she 
had  just  received  lying  before  her.  She  took  it 
passively,  and  opened  it — a  beautiful  row  of  pearls, 
not  very  large,  but  wonderfully  perfect,  lay  within — 
clasped  by  a  small,  curiously  designed  diamond  snap. 
She  looked  at  them  with  half-wondering,  half-indif- 
ferent eyes — then  closed  the  case  and  gave  it  to 
Robin  Clifford. 

"They  are  for  your  wife  when  you  marry,"  she 
said — "Please  keep  them." 

Mr.  Bayliss  coughed — a  cough  of  remonstrance. 

"Pardon  me,  my  dear  young  lady,  but  Mr.  Jocelyn 
was  particularly  anxious  the  pearls  should  be 
yours " 

She  looked  at  him,  gravely. 

"Yes — I  am  sure  he  was,"  she  said — "He  was  al- 
ways good — too  good  and  generous — but  if  they  are 
mine,  I  give  them  to  Mr.  Clifford.  There  is  nothing 
more  to  be  said  about  them." 

Mr.  Bayliss  coughed  again. 

"Well — that  is  all  that  is  contained  in  this  casket, 
with  the  exception  of  a  paper  unsealed — shall  I  read 
it?" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     177 

She  bent  her  head. 

"The  paper  is  written  in  Mr.  Jocelyn's  own  hand, 
and  is  as  follows,"  continued  the  lawyer:  "I  desire 
that  my  adopted  child,  known  as  'Innocent,'  shall 
receive  into  her  own  possession  the  Jocelyn  pearls, 
valued  by  experts  at  £2,500,  and  that  she  shall  wear 
the  same  on  her  marriage-morning.  The  sealed 
packet,  placed  in  this  casket  with  the  pearls  afore- 
said, contains  a  letter  for  her  own  personal  and  pri- 
vate perusal,  and  other  matter  which  concerns  her- 
self alone." 

Mr.  Bayliss  here  looked  up,  and  addressed  her. 

"From  these  words  it  is  evident  that  the  sealed 
packet  you  have  there  is  an  affair  of  confidence." 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  it. 

"I  quite  understand!" 

He  adjusted  his  glasses,  and  turned  over  his  docu- 
ments once  more. 

"Then  I  think  there  is  nothing  more  we  need 
trouble  you  with — oh  yes! — one  thing — Miss — er — 
Miss  Friday ?" 

Priscilla,  who  during  the  whole  conversation  had 
sat  bolt  upright  on  a  chair  in  the  corner  of  the 
room,  neither  moving  nor  speaking,  here  rose  and 
curtsied. 

The  lawyer  looked  at  her  attentively. 

"Friday— Miss  Priscilla  Friday?" 

"Yes,  sir — that's  me,"  said  Priscilla,  briefly. 

"Mr.  Jocelyn  thought  very  highly  of  you,  Miss 
Friday,"  he  said — "he  mentions  you  in  the  following 
paragraph  of  his  will — 'I  give  and  bequeath  to  my 
faithful  housekeeper  and  good  friend,  Priscilla  Fri- 
day, the  sum  of  Two  Hundred  Pounds  for  her  own 
personal  use,  and  I  desire  that  she  shall  remain  at 
Briar  Farm  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  And  that,  if 
she  shall  find  it  necessary  to  resign  her  duties  in  the 
farm  house,  she  shall  possess  that  cottage  on  my  es- 


178  INNOCENT 

tate  known  as  Rose  Cottage,  free  of  all  charges,  and 
be  allowed  to  live  there  and  be  suitably  and  com- 
fortably maintained  till  the  end  of  her  days.  And, — 
er — pray  don't  distress  yourself,  Miss  Friday!" 

For  Priscilla  was  crying,  and  making  no  effort  to 
hide  her  emotion. 

"Bless  'is  old  'art!"  she  sobbed— "He  thort  of 
everybody,  'e  did!  An'  what  shall  I  ever  want  o' 
Rose  Cottage,  as  is  the  sweetest  o'  little  places,  when 
I've  got  the  kitchen  o'  Briar  Farm! — an'  there  I'll 
'ope  to  do  my  work  plain  an'  true  till  I  drops! — so 
there! — an'  I'm  much  obliged  to  ye,  Mr.  Bayliss,  an' 
mebbe  ye'll  tell  me  where  to  put  the  two  'underd 
pounds  so  as  I  don't  lose  it,  for  I  never  'ad  so  much 
money  in  my  life,  an'  if  any  one  gets  to  'ear  of  it  I'll 
'ave  all  the  'alt  an'  lame  an'  blind  round  me  in  a 
jiffy.  An'  as  for  keepin'  money,  I  never  could — an' 
p'raps  it  'ud  be  best  for  Mr.  Robin  to  look  arter 

it "  Here  she  stopped,  out  of  breath  with  talk 

and  tears. 

"It  will  be  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Bayliss,  soothingly, 
"quite  all  right,  I  assure  you!  Mr.  Clifford  will  no 
doubt  see  to  any  little  business  matter  for  you  with 
great  pleasure " 

"Dear  Priscilla!" — and  Innocent  went  to  her  side 
and  put  an  arm  round  her  neck — "Don't  cry! — you 
will  be  so  happy,  living  always  in  this  dear  old  place! 
— and  Robin  will  be  so  glad  to  have  you  with  him." 

Priscilla  took  the  little  hand  that  caressed  her,  and 
kissed  it. 

"Ah,  my  lovey!"  she  half  whispered — "I  should 
be  'appy  enough  if  I  thought  you  was  a-goin'  to  be 
'appy  too! — but  you're  flyin'  in  the  face  o'  fortune, 
lovey! — that's  what  you're  a-doin'!" 

Innocent  silenced  her  with  a  gesture,  and  stood 
beside  her,  patiently  listening  till  Mr.  Bayliss  had 
concluded  his  business. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     179 

"I  think,  Mr.  Clifford,"  he  then  said,  at  last— 
"there  is  no  occasion  to  trouble  you  further.  Every- 
thing is  in  perfect  order — you  are  the  inheritor  of 
Briar  Farm  and  all  its  contents,  with  all  its  adjoining 
lands — and  the  only  condition  attached  to  your  in- 
heritance is  that  you  keep  it  maintained  on  the  same 
working  methods  by  which  it  has  always  been  main- 
tained. You  will  find  no  difficulty  in  doing  this — and 
you  have  plenty  of  money  to  do  it  on.  There  are  a 
few  minor  details  respecting  farm  stock,  etc.,  which 
we  can  go  over  together  at  any  time.  You  are  sole 
executor,  of  course — and — and — er — yes! — I  think 
that  is  all." 

"May  I  go  now?"  asked  Innocent,  lifting  her  seri- 
ous blue-grey  eyes  to  his  face — "Do  you  want  me 
any  more?" 

Mr.  Bayliss  surveyed  her  curiously. 

"No — I — er — I  think  not,"  he  replied — "Of  course 
the  pearls  should  be  in  your  possession " 

"I  have  given  them  away/'  she  said,  quickly — 
"to  Robin." 

"But  I  have  not  accepted  them,"  he  answered — 
"I  will  keep  them  if  you  like — for  you." 

She  gave  a  slight,  scarcely  perceptible  movement 
of  vexation,  and  then,  taking  up  the  sealed  packet 
which  was  addressed  to  her  personally,  she  left  the 
room. 

The  lawyer  looked  after  her  in  a  little  perplexity. 

"I'm  afraid  she  takes  her  loss  rather  badly,"  he 
said — "or — perhaps — is  she  a  little  absent-minded?" 

Robin  Clifford  smiled,  sadly. 

"I  think  not,"  he  answered.  "Of  course  she  feels 
the  death  of  my  uncle  deeply — she  adored  him — and 
then — I  suppose  you  know — my  uncle  may  have  told 
you " 

"That  he  hoped  and  expected  you  to  marry  her?" 
said  Mr.  Bayliss,  nodding  his  head,  sagaciously — 


180  INNOCENT 

"Yes — I  am  aware  that  such  was  his  dearest  wish. 
In  fact  he  led  me  to  believe  that  the  matter  was  as 
good  as  settled." 

"She  will  not  have  me,"  said  Clifford,  gently — 
"and  I  cannot  compel  her  to  marry  me  against  her 
will — indeed  I  would  not  if  I  could." 

The  lawyer  was  so  surprised  that  he  was  obliged  to 
take  off  his  glasses  and  polish  them. 

"She  will  not  have  you!"  he  exclaimed.  "Dear 
me!  That  is  indeed  most  unexpected  and  distress- 
ing! There  is — there  is  nothing  against  you,  surely? 
— you  are  quite  a  personable  young  man " 

Robin  shrugged  his  shoulders,  disdainfully. 

"Whatever  I  am  does  not  matter  to  her,"  he  said — 
"Let  us  talk  no  more  about  it." 

Priscilla  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"Eh  well!"  she  said — "If  any  one  knows  'er  at  all 
'tis  I  as  'ave  'ad  'er  with  me  night  an'  day  when  she 
was  a  baby — and  'as  watched  'er  grow  into  the  little 
beauty  she  is, — an'  'er  'ed's  just  fair  full  o'  strange 
fancies  that  she's  got  out  o'  the  books  she  found  in 
the  old  knight's  chest  years  ago — we  must  give  'er 
time  to  think  a  bit  an'  settle.  'Tis  an  awful  blow  to 
'er  to  lose  'er  Dad,  as  she  allus  called  Farmer  Joce- 
lyn — she's  like  a  little  bird  fallen  out  o'  the  nest  with 
no  strength  to  use  'er  wings  an'  not  knowin'  where 
to  go.  Let  'er  settle  a  bit! — that's  what  I  sez — an' 
you'll  see  I'm  right.  You  leave  'er  alone,  Mister 
Robin,  an'  all'll  come  right,  never  fear!  She's  got 
the  queerest  notions  about  love — she  picked  'em  out 
o'  they  old  books — an'  she'll  'ave  to  find  out  they's 
more  lies  than  truth.  Love's  a  poor  'oldin'  for  most 
folks — it  don't  last  long  enough." 

Mr.  Bayliss  permitted  himself  to  smile,  as  he  took 
his  hat,  and  prepared  to  go. 

"I'm  sure  you're  quite  right,  Miss  Friday!"  he 
said — "you  speak — er — most  sensibly!  I'm  sure  I 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     181 

hope,  for  the  young  lady's  sake,  that  she  will  'settle 
down' — if  she  does  not " 

"Ay,  if  she  does  not!"  echoed  Clifford. 

"Well!  if  she  does  not,  life  may  be  difficult  for 
her" — and  the  lawyer  shook  his  head  forebodingly — 
"A  girl  alone  in  the  world — with  no  relatives! — ah, 
dear,  dear  me!  A  sad  look-out! — a  very  sad  look- 
out! But  we  must  trust  to  her  good  sense  that  she 
will  be  wise  in  time!" 


CHAPTER  X 

UPSTAIRS,  shut  in  her  own  little  room  with  the 
door  locked,  Innocent  opened  the  sealed  packet.  She 
found  within  it  a  letter  and  some  bank-notes.  With 
a  sensitive  pain  which  thrilled  every  nerve  in  her 
body  she  unfolded  the  letter,  written  in  Hugo  Joce- 
lyn's  firm  clear  writing — a  writing  she  knew  so  well, 
and  which  bore  no  trace  of  weakness  or  failing  in  the 
hand  that  guided  the  pen.  How  strange  it  was,  she 
thought,  that  the  written  words  should  look  so  liv- 
ing and  distinct  when  the  writer  was  dead!  Her 
head  swam — her  eyes  were  dim — for  a  moment  she 
could  scarcely  see — then  the  mist  before  her  slowly 
dispersed  and  she  read  the  first  words,  which  made 
her  heart  swell  and  the  tears  rise  in  her  aching  throat. 

"My  LITTLE  WILDING! — When  you  read  this  I 
shall  be  gone  to  that  wonderful  world  which  all  the 
clergymen  tell  us  about,  but  which  none  of  them  are 
in  any  great  hurry  to  see  for  themselves.  I  hope — 
and  I  sometimes  believe — such  a  world  exists — and 
that  perhaps  it  is  a  place  where  a  man  may  sow  seed 
and  raise  crops  as  well  and  as  prosperously  as  on 
Briar  Farm — however,  I'm  praying  I  may  not  be 
taken  till  I've  seen  you  safely  wed  to  Robin — and 
yet,  something  tells  me  this  will  not  be;  and  that's 
the  something  that  makes  me  write  this  letter  and 
put  it  with  the  pearls  that  are,  by  my  will,  destined 
for  you  on  your  marriage-morning.  I'm  writing  it, 
remember,  on  the  same  night  I've  told  you  all  about 
yourself — the  night  of  the  day  the  doctor  gave  me 

182 


my  death-warrant.  I  may  live  a  year, — I  may  live 
but  a  week, — it  will  be  hard  if  I  may  not  live  to  see 
you  married! — but  God's  will  must  be  done.  The 
bank-notes  folded  in  this  letter  make  up  four  hun- 
dred pounds — and  this  money  you  can  spend  as  you 
like — on  your  clothes  for  the  bridal,  or  on  anything 
you  fancy — I  place  no  restriction  on  you  as  to  its 
use.  When  a  maid  weds  there  are  many  pretties  she 
needs  to  buy,  and  the  prettier  they  are  for  you  the 
better  shall  I  be  pleased.  Whether  I  live  or  whether 
I  die,  you  need  say  nothing  of  this  money  to  Robin, 
or  to  anyone.  It  is  your  own  absolutely — to  do  as 
you  like  with.  I  am  thankful  to  feel  that  you  will 
be  safe  in  Robin's  loving  care — for  the  world  is  hard 
on  a  woman  left  alone  as  you  would  be,  were  it  not 
for  him.  I  give  you  my  word  that  if  I  had  any  clue, 
however  small,  to  your  real  parentage,  I  would  write 
down  here  for  you  all  I  know — but  I  know  nothing 
more  than  I  have  told  you.  I  have  loved  you  as  my 
own  child  and  you  have  been  the  joy  of  my  old  days. 
May  God  bless  you  and  give  you  joy  and  peace  in 
Briar  Farm! — you  and  your  children,  and  your  chil- 
dren's children!  Amen! 

"Your  'Dad' 

"HUGO  JOCELYN." 

She  read  this  to  the  end,  and  then  some  tension  in 
her  brain  seemed  to  relax,  and  she  wept  long  and 
bitterly,  her  head  bent  down  on  the  letter  and  her 
bright  hair  falling  over  it.  Presently,  checking  her 
sobs,  she  rose,  and  looked  about  her  in  a  kind  of 
dream — the  familiar  little  room  seemed  to  have  sud- 
denly become  strange  to  her,  and  she  thought  she 
saw  standing  in  one  corner  a  figure  clad  in  armour, — 
its  vizor  was  up,  showing  a  sad  pale  face  and  melan- 
choly eyes — the  lips  moved — and  a  sighing  murmur 
floated  past  her  ears — "Mon  cceur  me  soutien!"  A 


184  INNOCENT 

cold  terror  seized  her,  and  she  trembled  from  head 
to  foot — then  the  vision  or  hallucination  vanished  as 
swiftly  and  mysteriously  as  it  had  appeared.  Rally- 
ing her  forces,  she  gradually  mastered  the  overpower- 
ing fear  which  for  a  moment  had  possessed  her, — and 
folding  up  Hugo  Jocelyn's  last  letter,  she  kissed  it, 
and  placed  it  in  her  bosom.  The  bank-notes  were 
four  in  number — each  for  one  hundred  pounds; — 
these  she  put  in  an  envelope,  and  shut  them  in  the 
drawer  containing  her  secret  manuscript. 

"Now  the  way  is  clear!"  she  said — "I  can  do  what 
I  like — I  have  my  wings,  and  I  can  fly  away!  Oh 
Dad,  dear  Dad! — you  would  be  so  unhappy  if  you 
knew  what  I  mean  to  do! — it  would  break  your 
heart,  Dad! — but  you  have  no  heart  to  break  now, 
poor  Dad! — it  is  cold  as  stone! — it  will  never  beat 
any  more!  Mine  is  the  heart  that  beats! — the 
heart  that  burns,  and  aches,  and  hurts  me! — ah! — 
how  it  hurts !  And  no  one  can  understand — no  one 
will  ever  care  to  understand!" 

She  locked  her  manuscript-drawer — then  went  and 
bathed  her  eyes,  which  smarted  with  the  tears  she 
had  shed.  Looking  at  herself  in  the  mirror  she  saw 
a  pale  plaintive  little  creature,  without  any  fresh- 
ness of  beauty — all  the  vitality  seemed  gone  out  of 
her.  Smoothing  her  ruffled  hair,  she  twisted  it  up  in 
a  loose  coil  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and  studied 
with  melancholy  dislike  and  pain  the  heavy  effect 
of  her  dense  black  draperies  against  her  delicate  skin. 

"I  shall  do  for  anything  now,"  she  said — "No  one 
will  look  at  me,  and  I  shall  pass  quite  unnoticed  in 
a  crowd.  I'm  glad  I'm  not  a  pretty  girl — it  might 
be  more  difficult  to  get  on.  And  Robin  called  me 
'lovely'  the  other  day! — poor,  foolish  Robin!" 

She  went  downstairs  then  to  see  if  she  could  help 
Priscilla — but  Priscilla  would  not  allow  her  to  do 
anything  in  the  way  of  what  she  called  "chores." 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     185 

"No,  lovey,"  she  said — "you  just  keep  quiet,  an' 
by-an'-bye  you  an'  me'll  'ave  a  quiet  tea  together,  for 
Mister  Robin  he's  gone  off  for  the  rest  o'  the  day  an' 
night  with  Mr.  Bayliss,  as  there's  lots  o'  things  to 
see  to,  an'  'e  left  you  this  little  note" — here  Priscilla 
produced  a  small  neatly  folded  paper  from  her  apron 
pocket — "an'  sez  'e — 'Give  this  to  Miss  Innocent,' 
'e  sez,  'an'  she  won't  mind  my  bein'  out  o'  the  way — 
it'll  be  better  for  'er  to  be  quiet  a  bit  with  you' — 
an'  so  it  will,  lovey,  for  sometimes  a  man  about  the 
'ouse  is  a  worrit  an'  a  burden,  say  what  we  will,  an' 
good  though  'e  be." 

Innocent  took  the  note  and  read — 

"I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  go  with  Bayliss  into 
the  town  and  stay  at  his  house  for  the  night — there 
are  many  business  matters  we  have  to  go  into  to- 
gether, and  it  is  important  for  me  to  thoroughly  un- 
derstand the  position  of  my  uncle's  affairs.  If  I  can- 
not manage  to  get  back  to-morrow,  I  will  let  you 
know.  Robin." 

She  heaved  a  sigh  of  intense  relief.  For  twenty- 
four  hours  at  least  she  was  free  from  love's  impor- 
tunity— she  could  be  alone  to  think,  and  to  plan. 
She  turned  to  Priscilla  with  a  gentle  look  and  smile. 

"I'll  go  into  the  garden,"  she  said — "and  when 
it's  tea-time  you'll  come  and  fetch  me,  won't 
you?  I  shall  be  near  the  old  stone  knight,  Sieur 
Amadis " 

"Oh,  bother  'im,"  muttered  Priscilla,  irrelevantly — 
"You  do  think  too  much  o'  that  there  blessed  old 
figure! — why,  what's  'e  got  to  do  with  you,  my 
pretty?" 

"Nothing!"  and  the  colour  came  to  her  pale  cheeks 
for  a  moment,  and  then  fled  back  again — "He  never 
had  anything  to  do  with  me,  really!  But  I  seem  to 
know  him." 

Priscilla  gave  a  kind  of  melancholy  snort — and  the 


186  INNOCENT 

girl  moved  slowly  away  through  the  open  door  and 
beyond  it,  out  among  the  radiant  flowers.  Her  little 
figure  in  deep  black  was  soon  lost  to  sight,  and  after 
watching  her  for  a  minute,  Priscilla  turned  to  her 
home-work  with  tears  blinding  her  eyes  so  thickly 
that  she  could  scarcely  see. 

"If  she  winnot  take  Mister  Robin,  the  Lord  knows 
what'll  become  of  'er!"  sighed  the  worthy  woman — 
"For  she's  as  lone  i'  the  world  as  a  thrush  fallen  out 
o'  the  nest  before  it's  grown  strong  enough  to  fly! 
Eh,  we  thort  we  did  a  good  deed,  Mister  Jocelyn  an' 
I,  when  we  kep'  'er  as  a  baby,  'opin'  agin  'ope  as  'er 
parents  'ud  turn  up  an'  be  sorry  for  the  loss  of  'er — 
but  never  a  sign  of  a  soul! — an'  now  she's  grow'd  up 
she's  thorts  in  'er  'ed  which  ain't  easy  to  unnerstand 
— for  since  Mister  Jocelyn  told  'er  the  tale  of  'erself 
she's  not  been  the  same  like — she's  got  suddin  old!" 

The  afternoon  was  very  peaceful  and  beautiful — 
the  sun  shone  warmly  over  the  smooth  meadows  of 
Briar  Farm,  and  reddened  the  apples  in  the  orchard 
yet  a  little  more  tenderly,  flashing  in  flecks  of  gold  on 
the  "Glory"  roses,  and  touching  the  wings  of  flutter- 
ing doves  with  arrowy  silver  gleams.  No  one  looking 
at  the  fine  old  house,  with  its  picturesque  gables  and 
latticed  windows,  would  have  thought  that  its  last 
master  of  lawful  lineage  was  dead  and  buried,  and 
that  the  funeral  had  taken  place  that  morning.  Briar 
Farm,  though.more  than  three  centuries  old,  seemed 
full  of  youthful  life  and  promise — a  vital  fact,  des- 
tined to  outlast  many  more  human  lives  than  those 
which  in  the  passing  of  three  hundred  years  had  al- 
ready left  their  mark  upon  it,  and  it  was  strange  and 
incredible  to  realise  that  the  long  chain  of  lineally 
descended  male  ancestors  had  broken  at  last,  and 
that  no  remaining  link  survived  to  carry  on  the  old 
tradition.  Sadly  and  slowly  Innocent  walked  across 
the  stretches  of  warm  clover-scented  grass  to  the  an- 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     187 

cient  tomb  of  the  "Sieur  Amadis" — and  sat  down  be- 
side it,  not  far  from  the  place  where  so  lately  she 
had  sat  with  Robin — what  a  change  had  come  over 
her  life  since  then!  She  watched  the  sun  sinking 
towards  the  horizon  in  a  mellow  mist  of  orange-col- 
oured radiance, — the  day  was  drawing  to  an  end — 
the  fateful,  wretched  day  which  had  seen  the  best 
friend  she  had  ever  known,  and  whom  for  years  she 
had  adored  and  revered  as  her  own  "father,"  laid  in 
the  dust  to  perish  among  perishable  things. 

"I  wish  I  had  died  instead  of  him,"  she  said,  half 
aloud — "or  else  that  I  had  never  been  born!  Oh, 
dear  'Sieur  Amadis'! — you  know  how  hard  it  is  to 
live  in  the  world  unless  some  one  wants  you — unless 
some  one  loves  you! — and  no  one  wants  me — no  one 
loves  me — except  Robin!" 

Solitary,  and  full  of  the  heaviest  sadness,  she  tried 
to  think  and  to  form  plans — but  her  mind  was  tired, 
and  she  could  come  to  no  decisive  resolution  beyond 
the  one  all-convincing  necessity — that  of  leaving 
Briar  Farm.  Of  course  she  must  go, — there  was  no 
other  alternative.  And  now,  thanks  to  Hugo  Joce- 
lyn's  forethought  in  giving  her  money  for  her  bridal 
"pretties,"  no  financial  difficulty  stood  in  the  way  of 
her  departure.  She  must  go — but  where?  To  begin 
with,  she  had  no  name.  She  would  have  to  invent 
one  for  herself 

"Yes!"  she  murmured — "I  must  invent  a  name 
— and  make  it  famous!"  Involuntarily  she  clenched 
her  small  hand  as  though  she  held  some  prize  within 
its  soft  grasp.  "Why  not?  Other  people  have  done 
the  same— -I  can  but  try !  If  I  fail !" 

Her  delicate  fingers  relaxed, — in  her  imagination 
she  saw  some  coveted  splendour  slip  from  her  hold, 
and  her  little  face  grew  set  and  serious  as  though  she 
had  already  suffered  a  whole  life's  disillusion. 

"I  can  but  try,"  she  repeated — "something  urges 


188  INNOCENT 

me  on — something  tells  me  I  may  succeed.  And 
then !" 

Her  eyes  brightened  slowly — a  faint  rose  flushed 
her  cheeks, — and  with  the  sudden  change  of  expres- 
sion, she  became  almost  beautiful.  Herein  lay  her 
particular  charm, — the  rarest  of  all  in  women, — the 
passing  of  the  lights  and  shadows  of  thought  over 
features  which  responded  swiftly  and  emotionally 
to  the  prompting  and  play  of  the  mind. 

"I  should  have  to  go,"  she  went  on — "even  if  Dad 
were  still  alive.  I  could  not — I  cannot  marry  Robin ! 
— I  do  not  want  to  marry  anybody.  It  is  the  com- 
mon lot  of  women — why  they  should  envy  or  desire 
it,  I  cannot  think !  To  give  one's  self  up  entirely  to 
a  man's  humours — to  be  glad  of  his  caresses,  and  mis- 
erable when  he  is  angry  or  tired — to  bear  his  chil- 
dren and  see  them  grow  up  and  leave  you  for  their 
own  'betterment'  as  they  would  call  it — oh! — what 
an  old,  old  drudging  life! — a  life  of  monotony,  sick- 
ness, pain,  and  fatigue! — and  nothing  higher  done 
than  what  animals  can  do!  There  are  plenty  of 
women  in  the  world  who  like  to  stay  on  this  level, 
I  suppose — but  I  should  not  like  it, — I  could  not  live 
in  this  beautiful,  wonderful  world  with  no  higher 
ambition  than  a  sheep  or  a  cow ! " 

At  that  moment  she  suddenly  saw  Priscilla  run- 
ning from  the  house  across  the  meadow,  and  beckon- 
ing to  her  in  evident  haste  and  excitement.  She  got 
up  at  once  and  ran  to  meet  her,  flying  across  the 
grass  with  light  airy  feet  as  swiftly  as  Atalanta. 

"What  is  it?"  she  cried,  seeing  Priscilla's  face, 
crimson  with  hurry  and  nervousness — "Is  there  some 
new  trouble?" 

Priscilla  was  breathless,  and  could  scarcely  speak. 

"There's  a  lady" — she  presently  gasped — "a  lady 
to  see  you — from  London — in  the  best  parlour — she 
asked  for  Farmer  Jocelyn's  adopted  daughter  named 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     189 

Innocent.  And  she  gave  me  her  card — here  it  is" 
—and  Priscilla  wiped  her  face  and  gasped  again  as 
Innocent  took  the  card  and  read  "Lady  Maude 
Blythe," — then  gazed  at  Priscilla,  wonderingly. 

"Who  can  she  be? — some  one  who  knew 
Dad ?" 

"Bless  you,  child,  he  never  knew  lord  nor  lady!" 
replied  Priscilla,  recovering  her  breath  somewhat — 
"No — it's  more  likely  one  o'  they  grand  folks  what 
likes  to  buy  old  furniture,  an'  mebbe  somebody's 
told  'er  about  Briar  Farm  things,  an'  'ow  they  might 
p'raps  be  sold  now  the  master's  gone " 

"But  that  would  be  very  silly  and  wicked  talk," 
said  Innocent.  "Nothing  will  be  sold — Robin 
would  never  allow  it " 

"Well,  come  an'  see  the  lady,"  and  Priscilla  hur- 
ried her  along — "She  said  she  wished  to  see  you  par- 
tikler.  I  told  'er  the-  master  was  dead,  an'  onny 
buried  this  mornin',  an'  she  smiled  kind  o'  pleasant 
like,  an'  said  she  was  sorry  to  have  called  on  such 
an  unfortunate  day,  but  her  business  was  important, 
an'  if  you  could  see  'er " 

"Is  she  young?" 

"No,  she's  not  young — but  she  isn't  old,"  replied 
Priscilla — "She's  wonderful  good-looking  an'  dressed 
beautiful!  I  never  see  such  clothes  cut  out  o'  blue 
serge !  An'  she's  got  a  scent  about  her  like  our  still- 
room  when  we're  makin'  pot-purry  bags  for  the 
linen." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  house,  and  In- 
nocent went  straight  into  the  best  parlour.  Her  un- 
expected and  unknown  visitor  stood  there  near  the 
window,  looking  out  on  the  beds  of  flowers,  but 
turned  round  as  she  entered.  For  a  moment  they 
confronted  each  other  in  silence, — Innocent  gazing 
in  mute  astonishment  and  enquiry  at  the  tall,  grace- 
ful, self-possessed  woman,  who,  evidently  of  the 


190  INNOCENT 

world,  worldly,  gazed  at  her  in  turn  with  a  curious, 
almost  quizzical  interest.  Presently  she  spoke  in  a 
low,  sweet,  yet  cold  voice. 

"So  you  are  Innocent!"  she  said.' 

The  girl's  heart  beat  quickly, — something  fright- 
ened her,  though  she  knew  not  what. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  simply — "I  am  Innocent. 
You  wished  to  see  me ?" 

"Yes — I  wished  to  see  you," — and  the  lady  quietly 
shut  the  window — "and  I  also  wish  to  talk  to  you. 
In  case  anyone  may  be  about  listening,  will  you  shut 
the  door?" 

With  increasing  nervousness  and  bewilderment, 
Innocent  obeyed. 

"You  had  my  card,  I  think?"  continued  the 
lady,  smiling  ever  so  slightly — "I  gave  it  to  the 
servant " 

Innocent  held  it  half  crumpled  in  her  hand. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  trying  to  rally  her  self-possession 
—"Lady  Maude  Blythe -" 

"Exactly! — you  have  quite  a  nice  pronunciation! 
May  I  sit  down?"  and,  without  waiting  for  the 
required  permission,  Lady  Blythe  sank  indolently 
into  the  old  oaken  arm-chair  where  Farmer  Jocelyn 
had  so  long  been  accustomed  to  sit,  and,  taking  out 
a  cobweb  of  a  handkerchief  powerfully  scented, 
passed  it  languorously  across  her  lips  and  brow. 

"You  have  had  a  very  sad  day  of  it,  I  fear!"  she 
continued — "Deaths  and  funerals  are  such  unpleas- 
ant affairs !  But  the  farmer — Mr.  Jocelyn — was  not 
your  father,  was  he?"  The  question  was  put  with 
a  repetition  of  the  former  slight,  cold  smile. 

"No," — and  the  girl  looked  at  her  wonderingly — 
"but  he  was  better  than  my  own  father  who  deserted 
me!" 

"Dear  me!  Your  own  father  deserted  you!  How 
shocking  of  him!"  and  Lady  Blythe  turned  a  pair 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     191 

of  brilliant  dark  eyes  full  on  the  pale  little  face  con- 
fronting her — "And  your  mother?" 

"She  deserted  me,  too." 

"What  a  reprehensible  couple!"  Here  Lady 
Blythe  extended  a  delicately  gloved  hand  towards 
her.  "Come  here  and  let  me  look  at  you!" 

But  Innocent  hesitated. 

"Excuse  me,"  she  said,  with  a  quaint  and  simple 
dignity — "I  do  not  know  you.  I  cannot  understand 
why  you  have  come  to  see  me — if  you  would  ex- 
plain— 

While  she  thus  spoke  Lady  Blythe  had  surveyed 
her  scrutinisingly  through  a  gold-mounted  lorgnon. 

"Quite  a  proud  little  person  it  is!"  she  remarked, 
and  smiled — "Quite  proud !  I  suppose  I  really  must 
explain !  Only  I  do  hope  you  will  not  make  a  scene. 
Nothing  is  so  unpleasant!  And  such  bad  form! 
Please  sit  down!" 

Innocent  placed  a  chair  close  to  the  table  so  that 
she  could  lean  her  arm  on  that  friendly  board  and 
steady  her  trembling  little  frame.  When  she  was 
seated,  Lady  Blythe  again  looked  at  her  critically 
through  the  lorgnon.  Then  she  continued — 

"Well,  I  must  first  tell  you  that  I  have  always 
known  your  history — such  a  romance,  isn't  it!  You 
were  brought  here  as  a  baby  by  a  man  on  horseback 
— and  he  left  you  with  the  good  old  farmer  who  has 
taken  care  of  you  ever  since.  I  am  right?  Yes! — 
I'm  quite  sure  about  it — because  I  knew  the  man — 
the  curious  sort  of  parental  Lochinvar! — who  got  rid 
of  you  in  such  a  curious  way!" 

Innocent  drew  a  sharp  breath. 

"You  knew  him?" 

Lady  Blythe  gave  a  delicate  little  cough. 

"Yes — I  knew  him — rather  well!  I  was  quite  a 
girl — and  he  was  an  artist — a  rather  famous  one  in 
his  way — half  French — and  very  good-looking.  Yes, 


192  INNOCENT 

he  certainly  was  remarkably  good-looking!  We  ran 
away  together — most  absurd  of  us — but  we  did. 
Please  don't  look  at  me  like  that! — you  remind  me 
of  Sara  Bernhardt  in  'La  Tosca'!" 

Innocent's  eyes  were  indeed  full  of  something  like 
positive  terror.  Her  heart  beat  violently — she  felt 
a  strange  dread,  and  a  foreboding  that  chilled  her 
very  blood. 

"People  often  do  that  kind  of  thing — fall  in  love 
and  run  away,"  continued  Lady  Blythe,  placidly — 
"when  they  are  young  and  silly.  It  is  quite  a  de- 
lightful sensation,  of  course,  but  it  doesn't  last.  They 
don't  know  the  world — and  they  never  calculate  re- 
sults. However,  we  had  quite  a  good  time  together. 
We  went  to  Devon  and  Cornwall,  and  he  painted 
pictures  and  made  love  to  me — and  it  was  all  very 
nice  and  pretty.  Then,  of  course,  trouble  came,  and 
we  had  to  get  out  of  it  as  best  we  could — we  were 
both  tired  of  each  other  and  quarrelled  dreadfully, 
so  we  decided  to  give  each  other  up.  Only  you  were 
in  the  way!" 

Innocent  rose,  steadying  herself  with  one  hand 
against  the  table. 

"I!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  kind  of  sob  in  her 
throat. 

"Yes — you!  Dear  me, — how  you  stare!  Don't 
you  understand?  I  suppose  you've  lived  such  a 
strange  sort  of  hermit  life  down  here  that  you  know 
nothing.  You  were  in  the  way — you,  the  baby!" 

"Do  you  mean ?" 

"Yes — I  mean  what  you  ought  to  have  guessed  at 
once — if  you  were  not  as  stupid  as  an  owl !  I've  told 
you  I  ran  away  with  a  man — I  wouldn't  marry  him, 
though  he  asked  me  to — I  should  have  been  tied  up 
for  life,  and  I  didn't  want  that — so  we  decided  to 
separate.  And  he  undertook  to  get  rid  of  the 
baby " 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     193 

"Me!"  cried  Innocent,  wildly — "oh,  dear  God!  It 
was  me!" 

"Yes — it  was  you — but  you  needn't  be  tragic  about 
it!"  said  Lady  Blythe,  calmly — "I  think,  on  the 
whole,  you  were  fortunately  placed — and  I  was  -told 
where  you  were " 

"You  were  told? — oh,  you  were  told! — and  you 
never  came!  And  you — you  are — my  mother!" — 
and  overpowered  by  the  shock  of  emotion,  the  girl 
sank  back  on  her  chair,  and  burying  her  head  in 
her  hands,  sobbed  bitterly.  Lady  Blythe  looked  at 
her  in  meditative  silence. 

"What  a  tiresome  creature!"  she  murmured,  under 
her  breath — "Quite  undisciplined!  No  repose  of 
manner — no  style  whatever!  And  apparently  very 
little  sense !  I  think  it's  a  pity  I  came, — a  mistaken 
sense  of  duty!" 

Aloud  she  said — 

"I  hope  you're  not  going  to  cry  very  long!  Won't 
you  get  it  over?  I  thought  you  would  be  glad  to 
know  me — and  I've  come  out  of  pure  kindness  to 
you,  simply  because  I  heard  your  old  farmer  was 
dead.  Why  Pierce  Armitage  should  have  brought 
you  to  him  I  never  could  imagine — except  that  once 
he  was  painting  a  picture  in  the  neighbourhood  and 
was  rather  taken  with  the  history  of  this  place — 
Briar  Farm  isn't  it  called?  You'll  make  your  eyes 
quite  sore  if  you  go  on  crying  like  that !  Yes — I  am 
your  mother — most  unfortunately! — I  hoped  you 
would  never  know  it! — but  now — as  you  are  left 
quite  alone  in  the  world,  I  have  come  to  see  what 
I  can  do  for  you." 

Innocent  checked  her  sobs,  and  lifting  her  head 
looked  straight  into  the  rather  shallow  bright  eyes 
that  regarded  her  with  such  cold  and  easy  scrutiny. 

"You  can  do  nothing  for  me,"  she  answered,  in 
a  low  voice — "You  never  have  done  anything  for 


194  INNOCENT 

me.  If  you  are  my  mother,  you  are  an  unnatural 
one!"  And  moved  by  a  sudden,  swift  emotion,  she 
stood  up  with  indignation  and  scorn  lighting  every 
feature  of  her  face.  "I  was  in  your  way  at  my  birth 
— and  you  were  glad  to  be  rid  of  me.  Why  should 
you  seek  me  now?" 

Lady  Blythe  glanced  her  over  amusedly. 

"Really,  you  would  do  well  on  the  stage!"  she 
said — "If  you  were  taller,  you  would  make  your 
fortune  with  that  tragic  manner!  It  is  quite  wasted 
on  me,  I  assure  you!  I've  told  you  a  very  simple 
commonplace  truth — a  thing  that  happens  every  day 
— a  silly  couple  run  away  together,  madly  in  love, 
and  deluded  by  the  idea  that  love  will  last — they  get 
into  trouble  and  have  a  child — naturally,  as  they  are 
not  married,  the  child  is  in  the  way,  and  they  get 
rid  of  it — some  people  would  have  killed  it,  you 
know!  Your  father  was  quite  a  kind-hearted  per- 
son— and  his  one  idea  was  to  place  you  where  there 
were  no  other  children,  and  where  you  would  have 
a  chance  of  being  taken  care  of.  So  he  brought  you 
to  Briar  Farm — and  he  told  me  where  he  had  left 
you  before  he  went  away  and  died." 

"Died!"  echoed  the  girl— "My  father  is  dead?" 

"So  I  believe," — and  Lady  Blythe  stifled  a  slight 
yawn — "He  was  always  a  rather  reckless  person — 
went  out  to  paint  pictures  in  all  weathers,  or  to 
'study  effects'  as  he  called  it — how  I  hated  his  'art' 
talk! — and  I  heard  he  died  in  Paris  of  influenza  or 
pneumonia  or  something  or  other.  But  as  I  was  mar- 
ried then,  it  didn't  matter." 

Innocent's  deep-set,  sad  eyes  studied  her  "mother" 
with  strange  wistfulness. 

"Did  you  not  love  him?"  she  asked,  pitifully. 

Lady  Blythe  laughed,  lightly. 

"You  odd  girl!  Of  course  I  was  quite  crazy  about 
him! — he  was  so  handsome — and  very  fascinating  in 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     195 

his  way — but  he  could  be  a  terrible  bore,  and  he  had 
a  very  bad  temper.  I  was  thankful  when  we  sep- 
arated. But  I  have  made  my  own  private  enquiries 
about  you,  from  time  to  time — I  always  had  rather 
a  curiosity  about  you,  as  I  have  had  no  other  chil- 
dren. Won't  you  come  and  kiss  me?" 

Innocent  stood  rigid. 

"I  cannot!"  she  said. 

Lady  Blythe  flushed  and  bit  her  lips. 

"As  you  like!"  she  said,  airily — "I  don't 
mind!" 

The  girl  clasped  her  hands  tightly  together. 

"How  can  you  ask  me!"  she  said,  in  low,  thrilling 
tones — "You  who  have  let  me  grow  up  without  any 
knowledge  of  you! — you  who  had  no  shame  in  leav- 
ing me  here  to  live  on  the  charity  of  a  stranger! — 
you  who  never  cared  at  all  for  the  child  you  brought 
into  the  world ! — can  you  imagine  that  /  could  care — 
now?' 

"Well,  really,"  smiled  Lady  Blythe— "I'm  not  sure 
that  I  have  asked  you  to  care!  I  have  simply  come 
here  to  tell  you  that  you  we  not  entirely  *l©ne  m 
the  world,  and  that  I,  knowing  myself  to  be  your 
mother — (although  it  happened  so  long  ago  I  can 
hardly  believe  I  was  ever  such  a  fool!) — am  willing 
to  do  something  for  you — especially  as  I  have 
no  children  by  my  second  marriage.  I  will,  in 
fact,  'adopt'  you!"  and  she  laughed — a  pretty, 
musical  laugh  like  a  chime  of  little  silver  bells. 
"Lord  Blythe  will  be  delighted — he's  a  kind  old  per- 
son!" 

Innocent  looked  at  her  gravely  and  steadily. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  will  own  me? — 
name  me? — acknowledge  me  as  your  daughter " 

"Why,  certainly  not!"  and  Lady  Blythe's  eyes 
flashed  over  her  in  cold  disdain — "What  are  you 
thinking  of?  You  are  not  legitimate — and  you  really 


196  INNOCENT 

have  no  lawful  name — besides,  I'm  not  bound  to  do 
anything  at  all  for  you  now  you  are  old  enough  to 
earn  your  own  living.  But  I'm  quite  a  good-natured 
woman, — and  as  I  have  said  already  I  have  no  other 
children — and  I'm  willing  to  'adopt'  you,  bring  you 
out  in  society,  give  you  pretty  clothes,  and  marry 
you  well  if  I  can.  But  to  own  that  I  ever  made  such 
an  idiot  of  myself  as  to  have  you  at  all  is  a  little  too 
much  to  ask! — Lord  Blythe  would  never  forgive 
me!" 

"So  you  would  make  me  live  a  life  of  deception 
with  you!"  said  Innocent — "You  would  make  me 
pretend  to  be  what  I  am  not — just  as  you  pretend  to 
be  what  you  are  not! — and  yet  you  say  I  am  your 
child!  Oh  God,  save  me  from  such  a  mother! 
Madam" — and  she  spoke  in  cold,  deliberate  accents 
— "you  have  lived  all  these  years  without  children, 
save  me  whom  you  have  ignored — and  I,  though 
nameless  and  illegitimate,  now  ignore  you!  I  have 
no  mother!  I  would  not  own  you  any  more  than 
you  would  own  me; — my  shame  in  saying  that  such 
a  woman  is  my  mother  would  be  greater  than  yours 
in  saying  that  I  am  your  child!  For  the  stigma  of 
my  birth  is  not  my  fault,  but  yours! — I  am,  as  my 
father  called  me — 'innocent'!" 

Her  breath  came  and  went  quickly — a  crimson 
flush  was  on  her  cheeks — she  looked  transfigured — 
beautiful.  Lady  Blythe  stared  at  her  in  wide-eyed 
disdain. 

"You  are  exceedingly  rude  and  stupid,"  she  said — 
"You  talk  like  a  badly- trained  actress!  And  you 
are  quite  blind  to  your  own  interests.  Now  please 
remember  that  if  you  refuse  the  offer  I  make  you,  I 
shall  never  trouble  about  you  again — you  will  have 
to  sink  or  swim — and  you  can  do  nothing  for  yourself 
— without  even  a  name " 

"Have  you  never  heard,"  interrupted  Innocent, 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     197 

suddenly,  "that  it  is  quite  possible  to  make  a 
name?" 

Her  "mother"  was  for  the  moment  startled — she 
looked  so  intellectually  strong  and  inspired. 

"Have  you  never  thought,"  she  went  on — "even 
you,  in  your  strange  life  of  hypocrisy " 

"Hypocrisy!"  exclaimed  Lady  Blythe — "How  dare 
you  say  such  a  thing!" 

"Of  course  it  is  hypocrisy,"  said  the  girl,  resolutely 
— "You  are  married  to  a  man  who  knows  nothing  of 
your  past  life — is  not  that  hypocrisy?  You  are  a  great 
lady,  no  doubt — you  have  everything  you  want  in 
this  world,  except  children — one  child  you  had  in 
me,  and  you  let  me  be  taken  from  you — yet  you 
would  pretend  to  'adopt'  me  though  you  know  I  am 
your  own!  Is  not  that  hypocrisy?" 

Lady  Blythe  for  a  moment  tightened  her  lips 
in  a  line  of  decided  temper — then  she  smiled  ironi- 
cally. 

"It  is  tact,"  she  said — "and  good  manners.  So- 
ciety lives  by  certain  conventions,  and  we  must  be 
careful  not  to  outrage  them.  In  your  own  interests 
you  should  be  glad  to  learn  how  to  live  suitably  with- 
out offence  to  others  around  you." 

Innocent  looked  at  her  with  straight  and  relent- 
less scorn. 

"I  have  done  that,"  she  answered — "so  far.  I  shall 
continue  to  do  it.  I  do  not  want  any  help  from  you! 
I  would  rather  die  than  owe  you  anything!  Please 
understand  this!  You  say  I  am  your  daughter,  and 
I  suppose  I  must  believe  it — but  the  knowledge 
brings  me  sorrow  and  shame.  And  I  must  work 
my  way  out  of  this  sorrow  and  shame, — somehow! 
I  will  do  all  I  can  to  retrieve  the  damaged  life  you 
have  given  me.  I  never  knew  my  mother  was  alive 
— and  now — I  wish  to  forget  it!  If  my  father  lived, 
I  would  go  to  him " 


198  INNOCENT 

"Would  you  indeed!"  and  Lady  Ely  the  rose,  shak- 
ing her  elegant  skirts,  and  preening  herself  like  a 
bird  preparing  for  flight — "I'm  afraid  you  would 
hardly  receive  a  parental  welcome!  Fortunately  for 
himself  and  for  me,  he  is  dead, — so  you  are  quite 
untrammelled  by  any  latent  notions  of  filial  duty. 
And  you  will  never  see  me  again  after  to-day!" 

"No?" — and  the  interrogation  was  put  with  the 
slightest  inflection  of  satire — so  fine  as  to  be  scarcely 
perceptible — but  Lady  Blythe  caught  it,  and  flushed 
angrily. 

"Of  course  not ! "  she  said — "Do  you  think  you,  in 
your  position  of  a  mere  farmer's  girl,  are  likely  to 
meet  me  in  the  greater  world?  You,  without  even 
a  name " 

"Would  you  have  given  me  a  name?"  interposed 
the  girl,  calmly. 

"Of  course!  I  should  have  invented  one  for 
you " 

"I  can  do  that  for  myself,"  said  Innocent,  quietly 
— "and  so  you  are  relieved  from  all  trouble  on  my 
score.  May  I  ask  you  to  go  now?" 

Lady  Blythe  stared  at  her. 

"Are  you  insolent,  or  only  stupid?"  she  asked — 
"Do  you  realise  what  it  is  that  I  have  told  you — 
that  I,  Lady  Blythe,  wife  of  a  peer,  and  moving 
in  the  highest  ranks  of  society,  am  willing  to  take 
charge  of  you,  feed  you,  clothe  you,  bring  you  out 
and  marry  you  well?  Do  you  understand,  and  still 
refuse?" 

"I  understand — and  I  still  refuse,"  replied  Inno- 
cent— "I  would  accept,  if  you  owned  me  as  your 
daughter  to  your  husband  and  to  all  the  world — 
but  as  your  'adopted'  child — as  a  lie  under  your  roof 
— I  refuse  absolutely  and  entirely!  Are  you  aston- 
ished that  I  should  wish  to  live  truly  instead  of 
falsely?" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     199 

Lady  Blythe  gathered  her  priceless  lace  scarf  round 
her  elegant  shoulders. 

"I  begin  to  think  it  must  have  been  all  a  bad 
dream!"  she  said,  and  laughed  softly — "My  little 
affair  with  your  father  cannot  have  really  happened, 
and  you  cannot  really  be  my  child !  I  must  consider 
it  in  that  light!  I  feel  I  have  done  my  part  in  the 
matter  by  coming  here  to  see  you  and  talk  to  you  and 
make  what  I  consider  a  very  kind  and  reasonable 
proposition — you  have  refused  it — and  there  is  no 
more  to  be  said."  She  settled  her  dainty  hat  more 
piquantly  on  her  rich  dark  hair,  and  smiled  agree- 
ably. "Will  you  show  me  the  way  out?  I  left  my 
motor-car  on  the  high-road — my  chauffeur  did  not 
care  to  bring  it  down  your  rather  muddy  back  lane." 

Innocent  said  nothing — but  merely  opened  the 
door  and  stood  aside  for  her  visitor  to  pass.  A  curi- 
ous tightening  at  her  heart  oppressed  her  as  she 
thought  that  this  elegant,  self-possessed,  exquisitely 
attired  creature  was  actually  her  "mother!" — and* 
she  could  have  cried  out  with  the  pain  which  was  so 
hard  to  bear.  Suddenly  Lady  Blythe  came  to  an 
abrupt  standstill. 

"You  will  not  kiss  me?"  she  said — "Not  even  for 
your  father's  sake?" 

With  a  quick  sobbing  catch  in  her  breath,  the  girl 
looked  up — her  "mother"  was  a  full  head  taller  than 
she.  She  lifted  her  fair  head — her  eyes  were  full  of 
tears.  Her  lips  quivered — Lady  Blythe  stooped  and 
kissed  them  lightly. 

"There! — be  a  good  girl!"  she  said.  "You  have 
the  most  extraordinary  high-flown  notions,  and  I 
think  they  will  lead  you  into  trouble!  However, 
I'll  give  you  one  more  chance — if  at  the  end  of  this 
year  you  would  like  to  come  to  me,  my  offer  to  you 
still  holds  good.  After  that — well! — as  you  yourself 
said,  you  will  have  no  mother!" 


200  INNOCENT 

"I  have  never  had  one!"  answered  Innocent,  in 
low  choked  accents — "And — I  shall  never  have 
one!" 

Lady  Blythe  smiled — a  cold,  amused  smile,  and 
passed  out  through  the  hall  into  the  garden. 

"What  delightful  flowers!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a 
sweet,  singing  voice,  for  the  benefit  of  anyone  who 
might  be  listening — "A  perfect  paradise !  No  wonder 
Briar  Farm  is  so  famous!  It's  perfectly  charming! 
Is  this  the  way?  Thanks  ever  so  much!"  This,  as 
Innocent  opened  the  gate — "Let  me  see! — I  go  up 
the  old  by-road? — yes? — and  the  main  road  joins  it 
at  the  summit? — No,  pray  don't  trouble  to  come  with 
me — I  can  find  my  car  quite  easily!  Good-bye!" 

And  picking  up  her  dainty  skirt  with  one  ungloved 
hand,  on  which  two  diamond  rings  shone  like  circlets 
of  dew,  she  nodded,  smiled,  and  went  her  way — 
Innocent  standing  at  the  gate  and  watching  her  go 
with  a  kind  of  numbed  patience  as  though  she  saw 
a  figure  in  a  dream  vanishing  slowly  with  Hie  dawn 
of  day.  In  truth  she  could  hardly  grasp  the  full 
significance  of  what  had  happened — she  did  not  feel, 
even  remotely,  the  slightest  attraction  towards  this 
suddenly  declared  "mother"  of  hers — she  could 
hardly  believe  the  story.  Yet  she  knew  it  must  be 
true, — no  woman  of  title  and  position  would  thus 
acknowledge  a  stigma  on  her  own  life  without  any 
cause  for  the  confession.  She  stood  at  the  gate  still 
watching,  though  there  was  nothing  now  to  watch, 
save  the  bending  trees,  and  the  flowering  wild  plants 
that  fringed  each  side  of  the  old  by-road.  Priscilla's 
voice  calling  her  in  a  clear,  yet  lowered  tone,  startled 
her  at  last — she  slowly  shut  the  gate  and  turned  in 
answer. 

"Yes,  dear?    What  is  it?" 

Priscilla  trotted  out  from  under  the  porch,  full  of 
eager  curiosity. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     201 

"Has  the  lady  gone?" 

"Yes." 

"What  did  she  want  with  ye,  dearie?" 

"Nothing  very  much!"  and  Innocent  smiled — a 
strange,  wistful  smile — "Only  just  what  you 
thought! — she  wished  to  buy  something  from  Briar 
Farm — and  I  told  her  it  was  not  to  be  sold!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

THAT  night  Innocent  made  an  end  of  all  her  hesi- 
tation. Resolutely  she  put  away  every  thought  that 
could  deter  her  from  the  step  she  was  now  resolved 
to  take.  Poor  old  Priscilla  little  imagined  the  un- 
derlying cause  of  the  lingering  tenderness  with  which 
the  girl  kissed  her  "good-night/'  looking  back  with 
more  than  her  usual  sweetness  as  she  went  along  the 
corridor  to  her  own  little  room.  Once  there,  she 
locked  and  bolted  the  door  fast,  and  then  set  to 
work  gathering  a  few  little  things  together  and  put- 
ting them  in  a  large  but  light-weight  satchel,  such 
as  she  had  often  used  to  carry  some  of  the  choicest 
apples  from  the  orchard  when  they  were  being  gath- 
ered in.  Her  first  care  was  for  her  manuscript, — the 
long-treasured  scribble,  kept  so  secretly  and  so  often 
considered  with  hope  and  fear,  and  wonder  and 
doubting — then  she  took  one  or  two  of  the  more 
cherished  volumes  which  had  formerly  been  the  prop- 
erty of  the  "Sieur  Amadis"  and  packed  them  with 
it.  Choosing  only  the  most  necessary  garments  from 
her  little  store,  she  soon  filled  her  extemporary 
travelling-bag,  and  then  sat  down  to  write  a  letter 
to  Robin.  It  was  brief  and  explicit. 

"DEAR  ROBIN," — it  ran — "I  have  left  this  beloved 
home.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  stay.  Dad  left 
me  some  money  in  bank-notes  in  that  sealed  letter — 
so  I  want  for  nothing.  Do  not  be  anxious  or  un- 
happy— but  marry  soon  and  forget  me.  I  know  you 
will  always  be  good  to  Priscilla — tell  her  I  am  not 

202 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    203 

ungrateful  to  her  for  all  her  care  of  me.  I  love  her 
dearly.  But  I  am  placed  in  the  world  unfortunately, 
and  I  must  do  something  that  will  help  me  out  of  the 
shame  of  being  a  burden  on  others  and  an  object  of 
pity  or  contempt.  If  you  will  keep  the  old  books 
Dad  gave  me,  and  still  call  them  mine,  you  will  be 
doing  me  a  great  kindness.  And  will  you  take  care 
of  Cupid? — lie  is  quite  a  clever  bird  and  knows  his 
friends.  He  will  come  to  you  or  Priscilla  as  easily  as 
he  comes  to  me.  Good-bye,  you  dear,  kind  boy!  I 
love  you  very  much,  but  not  as  you  want  me  to  love 
you, — and  I  should  only  make  you  miserable  if  I 
stayed  here  and  married  you.  God  bless  you ! 

"INNOCENT." 

She  put  this  in  an  envelope  and  addressed  it, — 
then  making  sure  that  everything  was  ready,  she  took 
a  few  sovereigns  from  the  little  pile  of  housekeeping 
money  which  Priscilla  always  brought  to  her  to  count 
over  every  week  and  compare  with  the  household 
expenses. 

"I  can  return  these  when  I  change  one  of  Dad's 
bank-notes,"  she  said  to  herself — "but  I  must  have 
something  smaller  to  pay  my  way  with  just  now  than 
a  hundred  pounds." 

Indeed  the  notes  Hugo  Jocelyn  had  left  for  her 
might  have  given  her  some  little  trouble  and  embar- 
rassment, but  she  did  not  pause  to  consider  difficul- 
ties. When  a  human  creature  resolves  to  dare  and 
to  do,  no  impediment,  real  or  imaginary,  is  allowed 
to  stand  long  in  the  way.  An  impulse  pushes  the 
soul  forward,  be  it  ever  so  reluctantly — the  impulse 
is  sometimes  from  heaven  and  sometimes  from  hell — 
but  as  long  as  it  is  active  and  peremptory,  it  is 
obeyed  blindly  and  to  the  full. 

This  little  ignorant  and  unworldly  girl  passed  the 
rest  of  the  night  in  tidying  the  beloved  room  where 


204  INNOCENT 

she  had  spent  so  many  happy  hours,  and  setting 
everything  in  order, — talking  in  whispers  between 
whiles  to  the  ghostly  presence  of  the  "Sieur  Amadis" 
as  to  a  friend  who  knew  her  difficult  plight  and 
guessed  her  intentions. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  softly,  "there  is  no  way 
out  of  it.  It  is  not  as  if  I  were  anybody — I  am  no- 
body! I  was  never  wanted  in  the  world  at  all.  I 
have  no  name.  I  have  never  been  baptised.  And 
though  I  know  now  that  I  have  a  mother,  I  feel  that 
she  is  nothing  to  me.  I  can  hardly  believe  she  is 
my  mother.  She  is  a  lady  of  fashion  with  a  secret — 
and  /  am  the  secret!  I  ought  to  be  put  away  and 
buried  and  forgotten ! — that  would  be  safest  for  her, 
and  perhaps  best  for  me!  But  I  should  like  to  live 
long  enough  to  make  her  wish  she  had  been  true  to 
my  father  and  had  owned  me  as  his  child !  Ah,  such 
dreams!  Will  they  ever  come  true!" 

She  paused,  looking  up  by  the  dim  candle-light  at 
the  arms  of  the  "Sieur  Amadis" — who  "Here  seekinge 
Forgetfulnesse  did  here  fynde  Peace" — and  at  the 
motto  "Mon  cceur  me  soutien." 

"Poor  'Sieur  Amadis!"  she  murmured — "He 
sought  f orgetf ulness ! — shall  I  ever  do  the  same? 
How  strange  it  will  be  not  to  wish  to  remember! — 
surely  one  must  be  very  old,  or  sad,  to  find  gladness 
in  forgetting!" 

A  faint  little  thrill  of  dread  ran  through  her  slight 
frame — thoughts  began  to  oppress  her  and  shake 
her  courage — she  resolutely  put  them  away  and  bent 
herself  to  the  practical  side  of  action.  Re-attiring 
herself  in  the  plain  black  dress  and  hat  which  Pris- 
cilla  had  got  for  her  mourning  garb,  she  waited  pa- 
tiently for  the  first  peep  of  daylight — a  daylight 
which  was  little  more  than  darkness — and  then,  tak- 
ing her  satchel,  she  crept  softly  out  of  her  room, 
never  once  looking  back.  There  was  nothing  to  stay 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     205 

her  progress,  for  the  great  mastiff  Hero,  since  Hugo 
Jocelyn's  death,  had  taken  to  such  dismal  howling 
that  it  had  been  found  necessary  to  keep  him  away 
from  the  house  in  a  far-off  shed  where  his  melan- 
choly plaints  could  not  be  heard.  Treading  with 
light,  soundless  footsteps  down  the  stairs,  she  reached 
the  front-door, — unbarred  and  unlocked  it  without 
any  noise,  and  as  softly  closed  it  behind  her, — then 
she  stood  in  the  open,  shivering  slightly  in  the  sweet 
coldness  of  the  coming  dawn,  and  inhaling  the_fra- 
grance  of  awakening  unseen  flowers.  She  knew  of  a 
gap  in  the  hedge  by  means  of  which  she  could  leave 
the  garden  without  opening  the  big  farm-gate  which 
moved  on  rather  creaking  hinges — and  she  took  this 
way  over  a  couple  of  rough  stepping-stones.  Once 
out  on  the  old  by-road  she  paused.  Briar  Farm 
looked  like  a  house  in  a  dream — there  was  not  enough 
daylight  yet  to  show  its  gables  distinctly,  and  it  was 
more  like  the  shadowy  suggestion  of  a  building  than 
any  actual  substance.  Yet  there  was  something  sol- 
emn and  impressive  in  its  scarcely  defined  outline — 
to  the  girl's  sensitive  imagination  it  was  like  the 
darkened  and  disappearing  vision  of  her  youth  and 
happiness, — a  curtain  falling,  as  it  were,  between  the 
past  and  the  future  like  a  drop-scene  in  a  play. 

"Good-bye,  Briar  Farm!"  she  whispered,  kissing 
her  hand  to  the  quaintly  peaked  roof  just  dimly  per- 
ceptible— "Good-bye,  dear,  beloved  home!  I  shall 
never  forget  you!  I  shall  never  see  anything  like 
you!  Good-bye,  peace  and  safety! — good-bye!" 

The  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes,  and  for  the  moment 
blinded  her, — then,  overcoming  this  weakness,  she 
set  herself  to  walk  quickly  and  steadily  away.  Up 
the  old  by-road,  through  the  darkness  of  the  over- 
hanging trees,  here  and  there  crossed  by  pale  wan- 
dering gleams  of  fitful  light  from  the  nearing  dawn, 
she  moved  swiftly,  treading  with  noiseless  footsteps 


206  INNOCENT 

as  though  she  thought  the  unseen  spirits  of  wood 
and  field  might  hear  and  interrupt  her  progress — 
and  in  a  few  minutes  she  found  herself  upon  the 
broad  highway  branching  right  and  left  and  leading 
in  either  direction  to  the  wider  world.  Briar  Farm 
had  disappeared  behind  the  trees, — it  was  as  though 
no  such  place  existed,  so  deeply  was  it  hidden. 

She  stopped,  considering.  She  was  not  sure  which 
was  the  way  to  the  nearest  railway-station  some 
eight  miles  distant.  She  was  prepared  to  walk  it, 
but  feared  to  take  the  wrong  road,  for  she  instinc- 
tively felt  that  if  she  had  to  endure  any  unexpected 
delay,  some  one  from  Briar  Farm  would  be  sent  to 
trace  her  and  find  out  where  she  went.  While  she 
thus  hesitated,  she  heard  the  heavy  rumbling  of 
slow  cart-wheels,  and  waited  to  see  what  sort  of  ve- 
hicle might  be  approaching.  It  was  a  large  waggon 
drawn  by  two  ponderous  horses  and  driven  by  a  man 
who,  dimly  perceived  by  the  light  of  the  lantern 
fastened  in  front  of  him,  appeared  to  be  asleep.  In- 
nocent hailed  him — and  after  one  or  two  efforts  suc- 
ceeded at  last  in  rousing  his  attention. 

"Which  is  the  way  to  the  railway-station?"  she 
asked. 

The  man  blinked  drowsily  at  her. 

"Railway-station,  is  it?  I  be  a-goin'  there  now  to 
fetch  a  load  o'  nitrates.  Are  ye  wantin'  to  git?" 

"Wantin'  to  git"  was  a  country  phrase  to 
which  Innocent  was  well  accustomed.  She  answered, 
gently — 

"Yes.  I  should  be  so  glad  if  you'd  give  me  a  lift 
— I'll  pay  you  for  it.  I  have  to  catch  the  first  train 
to  London." 

"Lunnon?  Quiet,  ye  rascals!" — this  to  the  sturdy 
horses  who  were  dragging  away  at  their  shafts  in 
stolid  determination  to  move  on — "Lunnon's  a  good 
way  off!  Ever  bin  there?" 


"No." 

"Nor  I,  nayther.    Seekin'  service?" 

"Yes." 

"Wai,  ye  can  ride  along  wi'  me,  if  so  be  ye  likes  it 
— we  be  goin'  main  slow,  but  we'll  be  there  before 
first  engine.  Climb  up! — that's  right!  'Ere's  a  cor- 
ner beside  me — ye  could  sit  in  the  waggon  if  ye  liked, 
but  it's  'ard  as  nails.  'Ere's  a  bit  of  'oss-cloth  for 
a  cushion." 

The  girl  sprang  up  as  he  bade  her  and  was  soon 
seated. 

"Ye're  a  light  'un  an'  a  little  'un,  an'  a  young  'un," 
he  said,  with  a  chuckle — "an'  what  ye're  doin'  all 
alone  i'  the  wake  o'  the  marnin'  is  more  than  yer 
own  mother  knows,  I  bet!" 

"I  have  no  mother,"  she  said. 

"Eh,  eh!  That's  bad— that's  bad!  Yet  for  all 
that  there's  bad  mothers  wot's  worse  than  none.  Git 
on  wi'  ye ! " — this  in  a  stentorian  voice  to  the  horses, 
accompanied  by  a  sounding  crack  of  the  whip.  "Git 
on!" 

The  big  strong  creatures  tugged  at  the  shafts  and 
obeyed,  their  hoofs  making  a  noisy  clatter  in  the 
silence  of  the  dawn.  The  daylight  was  beginning  to 
declare  itself  more  openly,  and  away  to  the  east,  just 
above  a  line  of  dark  trees,  the  sky  showed  pale  sug- 
gestions of  amber  and  of  rose.  Innocent  sat  very 
silent;  she  was  almost  afraid  of  the  coming  light 
lest  by  chance  the  man  beside  her  should  ever  have 
seen  her  before  and  recognise  her.  His  sleep  having 
been  broken,  he  was  disposed  to  be  garrulous. 

"Ever  bin  by  train  afore?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

"No!  Eh,  that's  mighty  cur'ous.  A'most  every- 
one goes  somewhere  by  train  nowadays — there's  such 
a  sight  o'  cheap  'scursiohs.  I  know  a  man  wot  got 
up  i'  the  middle  o'  night,  'e  did,  an'  more  fool  'e! — 


208  INNOCENT 

an'  off  'e  goes  by  train  down  to  seaside  for  the  day 
— Vd  never  seen  the  sea  before  an'  it  giv'  'im  such 
a  scare  as  'e  ain't  got  over  it  yet.  'E  said  there  was 
such  a  sight  o'  wobblin'  water  that  'e  thort  it  'ud 
wobble  off  altogether  an'  wash  away  all  the  land  and 
'im  with  it.  Ay,  ay!  'e  was  main  scared  with  'is 
cheap  'scursion ! " 

"I've  never  seen  the  sea,"  said  Innocent  then,  in 
a  low  clear  tone — "but  I've  read  about  it — and  I 
think  I  know  what  it  is  like.  It  is  always  changing, 
— it  is  full  of  beautiful  colours,  blue  and  green,  and 
grey  and  violet — and  it  has  great  waves  edged  with 
white  foam! — oh  yes! — the  poets  write  about  it,  and 
I  have  often  seen  it  in  my  dreams." 

The  dawning  light  in  the  sky  deepened — and  the 
waggoner  turned  his  head  to  look  more  closely  at 
his  girl-companion. 

"Ye  talks  mighty  strange!"  he  said — "a'most  as 
if  ye'd  been  eddicated  up  to  it.  I  ain't  been  eddi- 
cated,  an'  I've  no  notions  above  my  betters,  but  ye 
may  be  right  about  the  sea — if  ye've  read  about  it, 
though  the  papers  is  mostly  lies,  if  ye  asks  me,  telling 
ye  one  thing  one  day  an'  another  to-morrow " 

"I  don't  read  the  papers" — and  Innocent  smiled 
a  little  as  in  the  widening  light  ghe  began  to  see  the 
stolid,  stupid,  but  good-natured  face  of  the  man — • 
"I  don't  understand  them.  I've  read  about  the  sea 
in  book», — books  of  poetry." 

H»  uttered  &  sound  betwwo  a  whiatlt  and  a  grunt. 

"Books  of  poetry!  An'  ye're  goin'  to  i««k  wnric* 
in  Lunnon?  Take  my  word  for't,  my  gel,  they  won't 
want  any  folks  there  wi'  sort  o'  gammon  like  that 
in  their  'eds — they're  all  on  the  make  there,  an'  they 
don't  care  for  nothin'  'cept  money  an'  'ow  to  grab  it. 
I  ain't  bin  there,  but  I've  heerd  a  good  deal." 

"You  may  have  heard  wrong,"  said  Innocent,  gath- 
ering more  courage  as  she  realised  that  the  -light  was 


now  quite  clear  enough  for  him  to  see  her  features 
distinctly  and  that  it  was  evident  he  did  not  know 
her — "London  is  such  a  large  place  that  there  must 
be  all  sorts  in  it — good  as  well  as  bad — they  can't 
all  be  greedy  for  money.  There  must  be  people 
who  think  beautiful  things,  and  do  beautiful 
work " 

"Oh,  there's  plenty  o'  work  done  there" — and  the 
waggoner  flicked  his  long  whip  against  the  sturdy 
flanks  of  his  labouring  horses — "I  ain't  denyin'  that. 
An'  you'll  'ave  to  work,  my  gel! — you  bet!  you'll 
'ave  to  wash  down  steps  an'  sweep  kitchens  a  good 
while  afore  you  gits  into  the  way  of  it!  Why  not 
take  a  service  in  the  country?" 

"I'm  a  little  tired  of  the  country,"  she  answered — 
"I'd  like  a  change." 

"An'  a  change  ye're  likely  to  git!"  he  retorted, 
somewhat  gruffly — "Lor'  bless  yer  'art!  There  ain't 
nothin'  like  the  country!  '  All  the  trees  a-greenin' 
an'  the  flowers  a-blowin'  an'  the  birds  a-singin'! 
'Ave  ye  ever  'erd  tell  of  a  place  called  Briar 
Farm?" 

She  controlled  the  nervous  start  of  her  body,  and 
replied  quietly — 

"I  think  I  have.    A  very  old  place." 

"Ah!  Old?  I  believe  ye!  'Twas  old  in  the  time 
o'  good  Queen  Bess — an'  the  same  fam'ly  'as  'ad  it 
these  three  'undred  years — a  fam'ly  o'  the  name  o' 
Jocelyn.  Ay,  if  ye  could  a'  got  service  wi'  Farmer 
Jocelyn  ye'd  a'  bin  in  luck's  way!  But  'e's  dead  an' 
gone  last  week — more's  the  pity! — an'  'is  nephew's 
got  the  place  now,  forbye  'e  ain't  a  Jocelyn." 

She  was  silent,  affecting  not  to  be  interested.  The 
waggoner  went  on — 

"That's  the  sort  o'  place  to  seek  service  in!  Safe 
an'  clean  an'  'onest  as  the  sunshine — good  work  an' 
good  pay — a  deal  better  than  a  place  in  Lunnon. 


210  INNOCENT 

An'  country  air,  my  gel! — country  air! — nuthin'  like 
it!" 

A  sudden  blaze  of  gold  lit  up  the  trees — the  sun 
was  rising — full  day  was  disclosed,  and  the  last  filmy 
curtains  of  the  night  were  withdrawn,  showing  a 
heavenly  blue  sky  flecked  lightly  with  wandering 
trails  of  white  cloud  like  swansdown.  He  pointed 
eastward  with  his  long  whip. 

"Look  at  that ! "  he  said— "Fine,  isn't  it !  No  roofs 
and  chimneys — just  the  woods  and  fields!  Nuthin' 
like  it  anywhere!" 

Innocent  drew  a  long  breath — the  air  was  indeed 
sweet  and  keen — new  life  seemed  given  to  the  world 
with  its  exhilarating  freshness.  But  she  made  no 
reply  to  the  enthusiastic  comments  of  her  companion. 
Thoughts  were  in  her  brain  too  deep  for  speech.  Not 
here,  not  here,  in  this  quiet  pastoral  scene  could  she 
learn  the  way  to  wrest  the  golden  circlet  of  fame 
from  the  hands  of  the  silent  gods! — it  must  be  in 
the  turmoil  and  rush  of  endeavour — the  swift  pur- 
suit of  the  flying  Apollo !  And — as  the  slow  waggon 
jogged  along — she  felt  herself  drawn,  as  it  were,  by 
a  magnet — on — on — on! — on  towards  a  veiled  mys- 
tery which  waited  for  her — a  mystery  which  she 
alone  could  solve. 

Presently  they  came  within  sight  of  several  rows 
of  ugly  wooden  sheds  with  galvanised  iron  roofs  and 
short  black  chimneys. 

"A'most  there  now,"  said  the  waggoner — "  'Ere's 
a  bit  o'  Lunnon  a'ready! — dirt  an'  muck  and  mud- 
dle !  Where  man  do  make  a  mess  o'  things  'e  makes 
a  mess  all  round!  Spoils  everything  'e  can  lay  'is 
'ands  on!" 

The  approaches  to  the  railway  were  certainly  not 
attractive — no  railway  approaches  ever  are.  Perhaps 
they  appear  more  than  usually  hideous  when  built 
amid  a  fair  green  country,  where  for  miles  and  miles 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     211 

one  sees  nothing  but  flowering  hedgerows  and  soft 
pastures  shaded  by  the  graceful  foliage  of  sheltering 
trees.  Then  the  shining,  slippery  iron  of  the  rail- 
way running  like  a  knife  through  the  verdant  bosom 
of  the  land  almost  hurts  the  eyes,  and  the  acces- 
sories of  station-sheds,  coal-trucks,  and  the  like,  af- 
front the  taste  like  an  ill-done  foreground  in  an 
otherwise  pleasing  picture.  A  slight  sense  of  depres- 
sion and  foreboding  came  like  a  cloud  over  the  mind 
of  poor  little  lonely  Innocent,  as  she  alighted  at  the 
station  at  last,  and  with  uplifted  wistful  eyes  ten- 
dered a  sovereign  to  the  waggoner. 

"Please  take  as  much  of  it  as  you  think  right," 
she  said — "It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  let  me  ride 
with  you." 

The  man  stared,  whistled,  and  thought.  Feeling 
in  the  depth  of  a  capacious  pocket  he  drew  out  a 
handful  of  silver  and  counted  it  over  carefully. 

"  'Ere  y'are!"  he  said,  handing  it  all  over  with  the 
exception  of  one  half-crown — "Ye'll  want  all  yer 
change  in  Lunnon  an'  more.  I'm  takin'  two  bob  an' 
sixpence — if  ye  thinks  it  too  much,  say  so!" 

"Oh  no,  no!"  and  Innocent  looked  distressed — 
"Perhaps  it's  too  little — I  hope  you  are  not  wrong- 
ing yourself?" 

The  waggoner  laughed,  kindly  enough. 

"Don't  ye  mind  me!"  he  said— "I'm  all  right!  If 
I  'adn't  two  kids  at  'ome  I'd  charge  ye  nothin' — 
but  I'm  goin'  to  get  'em  a  toy  they  wants,  an'  I'll 
take  the  'arf-crown  for  the  luck  of  it.  Good-day 
t'ye!  Hope  you'll  find  an  easy  place!" 

She  smiled  and  thanked  him, — then  entered  the 
station  and,  finding  the  ticket-office  just  open,  paid 
a  third-class  fare  to  London.  A  sudden  thrill  of 
nervousness  came  over  her.  She  spoke  to  the  book- 
ing-clerk, peering  wistfully  at  him  through  his  little 
ticket-aperture. 


212  INNOCENT 

"I  have  never  been  in  a  train  before!"  she  said, 
in  a  small,  anxious  voice. 

The  clerk  smiled,  and  yawned  expansively.  He 
was  a  young  man  who  considered  himself  a  "gentle- 
man," and  among  his  own  particular  set  passed  for 
being  a  wit. 

"Really!"  he  drawled — "Quite  a  new  experience 
for  you!  A  little  country  mouse,  is  it?" 

Innocent  drew  back,  offended. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  coldly — 
and  moved  away. 

The  young  clerk  fingered  his  embryo  moustache 
dubiously — conscious  of  a  blunder  in  manners.  This 
girl  was  a  lady — not  a  mere  country  wench  to  joke 
with.  He  felt  rather  uncomfortable — and  presently 
leaving  his  office,  went  out  on  the  platform  where 
she  was  walking  up  and  down,  and  slightly  lifted  his 
cap. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  he  said,  his  face  reddening 
a  little — "If  you  are  travelling  alone  you  would  like 
to  get  into  a  carriage  with  other  people,  wouldn't 
you?" 

"Oh  yes!"  she  answered,  eagerly — "If  you  would 
be  so  kind " 

He  made  no  answer,  as  just  then,  with  a  rush  and 
crash  and  clatter,  and  deafening  shriek  of  the  engine- 
whistle,  the  train  came  thundering  in.  There  was 
opening  and  shutting  of  doors,  much  banging  and 
confusion,  and  before  she  very  well  knew  where  she 
was,  Innocent  found  herself  in  a  compartment  with 
three  other  persons — one  benevolent-looking  old  gen- 
tleman with  white  hair  who  was  seated  opposite  to 
her,  and  a  man  and  woman,  evidently  husband  and 
wife.  Another  shriek  and  roar,  and  the  train  started 
— as  it  began  to  race  along,  Innocent  closed  her  eyes 
with  a  sickening  sensation  of  faintness  and  terror — 
then,  opening  them,  saw  hedges,  fields,  trees  and 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    213 

ponds  all  flying  past  her  like  scud  in  the  wind,  and 
sat  watching  in  stupefied  wonderment — one  little 
hand  grasping  the  satchel  that  held  all  her  worldly 
possessions — the  other  hanging  limply  at  her  side. 
Now  and  then  she  looked  at  her  companions — the 
husband  and  wife  sat  opposite  each  other  and  spoke 
occasionally  in  monosyllables — the  old  gentleman  on 
the  seat  facing  herself  was  reading  a  paper  which 
showed  its  title — "The  Morning  Post."  Sometimes 
he  looked  at  her  over  the  top  of  the  paper,  but  for 
the  most  part  he  appeared  absorbed  in  the  printed 
page.  On,  on,  on,  the  train  rushed  at  a  pace  which 
to  her  seemed  maddening  and  full  of  danger — she 
felt  sick  and  giddy — would  it  never  stop,  she 
thought? — and  a  deep  sense  of  relief  came  over  her 
when,  with  a  scream  from  the  engine-whistle  loud 
enough  to  tear  the  drum  of  a  sensitive  ear,  the  whole 
shaking,  rattling  concern  came  to  an  abrupt  stand- 
still at  a  station.  Then  she  mustered  up  courage 
to  speak. 

"Please,  would  you  tell  me "  she  began,  faintly. 

The  old  gentleman  laid  down  his  "Morning  Post" 
and  surveyed  her  encouragingly. 

"Yes?    What  is  it?" 

"Will  it  be  long  before  we  get  to  London?" 

"About  three  hours." 

"Three  hours!" 

Shi  gave  a  deep  and  weary  sigh.  Three  hours! 
Hardly  till  then  had  she  realised  how  far  she  was 
from  Briar  Farm — or  how  entirely  she  had  cut  her- 
s*lf  off  from  all  the  familiar  surroundings  of  her 
childhood's  home,  her  girlhood's  life.  She  leaned 
back  in  her  seat,  and  one  or  two  tears  escaped  from 
under  her  drooping  eyelids  and  trickled  slowly  down 
her  cheeks.  The  train  started  off  again,  rushing  at 
what  she  thought  an  awful  speed, — she  imagined  her- 
self as  being  torn  away  from  the  peaceful  past  and 


214  INNOCENT 

hurled  into  a  stormy  future.  Yet  it  was  her  own 
doing — whatever  chanced  to  her  now  she  would  have 
no  one  but  herself  to  blame.  The  events  of  the  past 
few  days  had  crushed  and  beaten  her  so  with  blows, 
— the  old  adage  "Misfortunes  never  come  singly"  had 
been  fulfilled  for  her  with  cruel  and  unlooked-for 
plenitude.  There  is  a  turning-point  in  every  human 
life — or  rather  several  turning-points — and  at  each 
one  are  gathered  certain  threads  of  destiny  which 
may  either  be  involved  in  a  tangle  or  woven  dis- 
tinctly as  a  clue — but  which  in  any  case  lead  to 
change  in  the  formerly  accepted  order  of  things.  We 
may  thank  the  gods  that  this  is  so — otherwise  in  the 
jog-trot  of  a  carefully  treasured  conservatism  and 
sameness  of  daily  existence  we  should  become  the 
easy  prey  of  adventurers,  who,  discovering  our  de- 
sire for  the  changelessness  of  a  convenient  and  com- 
fortable routine,  would  mulct  us  of  all  individuality. 
Our  very  servants  would  become  our  masters,  and 
would  take  advantage  of  our  easy-going  ways  to 
domineer  over  us,  as  in  the  case  of  "lone  ladies"  who 
are  often  half  afraid  to  claim  obedience  from  the  do- 
mestics they  keep  and  pay.  Ignorant  of  the  ways 
of  the  world  and  full  of  such  dreams  as  the  world 
considers  madness,  Innocent  had  acted  on  a  power- 
ful inward  impetus  which  pushed  her  spirit  towards 
liberty  and  independence — but  of  any  difficulties  or 
dangers  she  might  have  to  encounter  she  never 
thought.  She  had  the  blind  confidence  of  a  child 
that  runs  along  heedless  of  falling,  being  instinctively 
sure  that  some  hand  will  be  stretched  out  to  save  it 
should  it  run  into  positive  danger. 

Mastering  the  weakness  of  tears,  she  furtively 
dried  her  eyes  and  endeavoured  not  to  think  at  all — 
not  to  dwell  on  the  memory  of  her  "Dad"  whom 
she  had  loved  so  tenderly,  and  all  the  sweet  sur- 
roundings of  Briar  Farm  which  already  seemed  so 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    215 

far  away.  Robin  would  be  sorry  she  had  gone — 
indeed  he  would  be  very  miserable  for  a  time — she 
was  certain  of  that! — and  Priscilla!  yes,  Priscilla  had 
loved  her  as  her  own  child, — here  her  thoughts  be- 
gan running  riot  again,  and  she  moved  impatiently. 
Just  then  the  old  gentleman  with  the  "Morning 
Post"  folded  it  neatly  and,  bending  forward,  offered 
it  to  her. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  the  paper?"  he  asked, 
politely. 

The  warm  colour  flushed  her  cheeks — she  accepted 
it  shyly. 

"Thank  you  very  much!"  she  murmured — and, 
gratefully  shielding  her  tearful  eyes  behind  the  con- 
venient news-sheet,  she  began  glancing  up  and 
down  the  front  page  with  all  its  numerous  announce- 
ments, from  the  "Agony"  column  down  to  the 
latest  new  concert-singers  and  sailings  of  steamers. 

Suddenly  her  attention  was  caught  by  the  follow- 
ing advertisement — 

"A  Lady  of  good  connection  and  position  will  be 
glad  to  take  another  lady  as  Paying  Guest  in  her 
charming  house  in  Kensington.  Would  suit  anyone 
studying  art  or  for  a  scholarship.  Liberal  table  and 
refined  surroundings.  Please  communicate  with 
'Lavinia'  at "  Here  followed  an  address. 

Over  and  over  again  Innocent  read  this  with  a 
sort  of  fascination.  Finally,  taking  from  her  pocket 
a  little  note-book  and  pencil,  she  copied  it  carefully. 

"I  might  go  there,"  she  thought — "If  she  is  a  poor 
lady  wanting  money,  she  might  be  glad  to  have  me 
as  a  'paying  guest.'  Anyhow,  it  will  do  no  harm 
to  try.  I  must  find  some  place  to  rest  in,  if  only  for 
a  night." 

Here  she  became  aware  that  the  old  gentleman 
who  had  lent  her  the  paper  was  eyeing  her  curiously 
yet  kindly.  She  met  his  glance  with  a  mixture  of 


216  INNOCENT 

frankness  and  timidity  which  gave  her  expression  a 
wonderful  charm.  He  ventured  to  speak  as  he  might 
have  spoken  to  a  little  child. 

"Are  you  going  to  London  for  the  first  tune?" 
he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir." 

He  smiled.  He  had  a  pleasant  smile,  distinctly 
humorous  and  good-natured. 

"It's  a  great  adventure!"  he  said — "Especially  for 
a  little  girl,  all  alone." 

She  coloured. 

"I'm  not  a  little  girl,"  she  answered,  with  quaint 
dignity — "I'm  eighteen." 

"Really!" — and  the  old  gentleman  looked  more 
humorous  than  ever — "Oh  well! — of  course  you  are 
quite  old.  But,  you  see,  I  am  seventy,  so  to  me  you 
seem  a  little  girl.  I  suppose  your  friends  will  meet 
you  in  London?" 

She  hesitated — then  answered,  simply — 

"No.  I  have  no  friends.  I  am  going  to  earn  my 
living." 

The  old  gentleman  whistled.  It  was  a  short,  low 
whistle  at  first,  but  it  developed  into  a  bar  of  "Sally 
in  our  Alley."  Then  he  looked  round — the  other 
people  in  the  compartment,  the  husband  and  wife, 
were  asleep. 

"Poor  child!"  he  then  said,  very  gently — "I'm 
afraid  that  will  be  hard  work  for  you.  You  don't 
look  very  strong." 

"Oh,  but  I  am!"  she  replied,  eagerly — "I  can  do 
anything  in  housework  or  dairy-farming — I've  been 
brought  up  to  be  useful " 

"That's  more  than  a  great  many  girls  can  say!" 
he  remarked,  smiling — "Well,  well!  I  hope  you  may 
succeed!  I  also  was  brought  up  to  be  useful — but 
I'm  not  sure  that  I  have  ever  been  of  any  use!" 

She  looked  at  him  with  quick  interest. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    217 

"Are  you  a  clever  man?"  she  asked. 

The  simplicity  of  the  question  amused  him,  and  he 
laughed. 

"A  few  people  have  sometimes  called  me  so,"  he 
answered — "but  my  'cleverness/  or  whatever  it  may 
be,  is  not  of  the  successful  order.  And  I'm  getting 
old  now,  so  that  most  of  my  activity  is  past.  I  have 
written  a  few  books " 

"Books!" — she  clasped  her  hands  nervously,  and 
her  eyes  grew  brilliant — "Oh!  If  you  can  write 
books  you  must  always  be  happy!" 

"Do  you  think  so?"  And  he  bent  his  brows  and 
scrutinised  her  more  intently.  "What  do  you  know 
about  it?  Are  you  fond  of  reading?" 

A  deep  blush  suffused  her  fair  skin. 

"Yes — but  I  have  only  read  very  old  books  for 
the  most  part,"  she  said — "In  the  farm-house  where 
I  was  brought  up  there  were  a  great  many  manu- 
scripts on  vellum,  and  curious  things — I  read  those — 
and  some  books  in  old  French " 

"Books  in  old  French!"  he  echoed,  wonderingly. 
"And  you  can  read  them?  You  are  quite  a  French 
scholar,  then?" 

"Oh  no,  indeed!"  she  protested — "I  have  only 
taught  myself  a  little.  Of  course  it  was  difficult  at 
first, — but  I  soon  managed  it, — just  as  I  learned  how 
to  read  old  English — I  mean  the  English  of  Queen 
Elizabeth's  time.  I  loved  it  all  so  much  that  it  was 
a  pleasure  to  puzzle  it  out.  We  had  a  few  modern 
books — but  I  never  cared  for  them." 

He  studied  her  face  with  increasing  interest. 

"And  you  are  going  to  earn  your  own  living  in 
London!"  he  said — "Have  you  thought  of  a  way 
to  begin?  In  old  French,  or  old  English?" 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly  and  saw  that  he  was 
smiling  kindly. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  gently — "I  have  thought 


218  INNOCENT 

of  a  way  to  begin!  Will  you  tell  me  of  some  book 
you  have  written  so  that  I  may  read  it?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Not  I !"  he  declared — "I  could  not  stand  the  criti- 
cism of  a  young  lady  who  might  compare  me  with 
the  writers  of  the  Elizabethan  period — Shakespeare, 
for  instance " 

"Ah  no!"  she  said — "No  one  can  ever  be  com- 
pared with  Shakespeare — that  is  impossible!" 

He  was  silent, — and  as  she  resumed  her  reading  of 
the  "Morning  Post"  he  had  lent  her,  he  leaned  back 
in  his  seat  and  left  her  to  herself.  But  he  was  keenly 
interested, — this  young,  small  creature  with  her  deli- 
cate, intelligent  face  and  wistful  blue-grey  eyes  was 
a  new  experience  for  him.  He  was  a  well-seasoned 
journalist  and  man  of  letters, — clever  in  his  own 
line  and  not  without  touches  of  originality  in  his 
work — but  hardly  brilliant  or  forceful  enough  to 
command  the  attention  of  the  public  to  a  large  or 
successful  issue.  He  was,  however,  the  right  hand 
and  chief  power  on  the  staff  of  one  of  the  most  in- 
fluential of  daily  newspapers,  whose  proprietor  would 
no  more  have  thought  of  managing  things  without 
him  than  of  going  without  a  dinner,  and  from  this 
post,  which  he  had  held  for  twenty  years,  he  derived 
a  sufficiently  comfortable  income.  In  his  profession 
he  had  seen  all  classes  of  humanity — the  wise  and  the 
ignorant, — the  conceited  and  the  timid, — men  who 
considered  themselves  new  Shakespeares  in  embryo, 
— women  in  whom  the  unbounded  vanity  of  a  little 
surface  cleverness  was  sufficient  to  place  them  be- 
yond the  pale  of  common  respect, — but  he  had  never 
till  now  met  a  little  country  girl  making  her  first 
journey  to  London  who  admitted  reading  "old 
French"  and  Elizabethan  English  as  unconcernedly 
as  she  might  have  spoken  of  gathering  apples  or 
churning  cream.  He  determined  not  to  lose  sight  of 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     219 

her,  and  to  improve  the  acquaintance  if  he  got  the 
chance.  He  heard  her  give  a  sudden  sharp  sigh  as 
she  read  the  "Morning  Post," — she  had  turned  to 
the  middle  of  the  newspaper  where  the  events  of 
the  day  were  chronicled,  and  where  a  column  of  fash- 
ionable intelligence  announced  the  ephemeral  doings 
of  the  so-called  "great"  of  the  world.  Here  one  para- 
graph had  caught  and  riveted  her  attention — it  ran 
thus — "Lord  and  Lady  Blythe  have  left  town  for 
Glen-Alpin,  Inverness-shire,  where  they  will  enter- 
tain a  large  house-party  to  meet  the  Prime  Min- 
ister." 

Her  mother! — It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  but 
a  few  hours  ago  this  very  Lady  Blythe  had  offered 
to  "adopt"  her! — "adopt"  her  own  child  and  act  a 
lie  in  the  face  of  all  the  "society"  she  frequented, — 
yet,  strange  and  fantastic  as  it  seemed,  it  was  true! 
Possibly  she — Innocent — had  she  chosen,  could  have 
been  taken  to  "Glen-Alpin,  Inverness-shire!" — she 
too  might  have  met  the  Prime  Minister !  She  almost 
laughed  at  the  thought  of  it! — the  paper  shook  in 
her  hand.  Her  "mother"!  Just  then  the  old  gen- 
tleman bent  forward  again  and  spoke  to  her. 

"We  are  very  near  London  now,"  he  said — "Can 
I  help  you  at  the  station  to  get  your  luggage?  You 
might  find  it  confusing  at  first " 

"Oh,  thank  you!"  she  murmured — "But  I  have 
no  luggage — only  this" — and  she  pointed  to  the 
satchel  beside  her — "I  shall  get  on  very  well." 

Here  she  folded  up  the  "Morning  Post"  and  re- 
turned it  to  him  with  a  pretty  air  of  courtesy.  As 
he  accepted  it  he  smiled. 

"You  are  a  very  independent  little  lady!"  he 
said — "But— just  in  case  you  ever  do  want  to  read 
a  book  of  mine,: — I  am  going  to  give  you  my  name 
and  address."  Here  he  took  a  card  from  his  waist- 
coat pocket  and  gave  it  to  her.  "That  will  always 


220  INNOCENT 

find  me,"  he  continued — "Don't  be  afraid  to  write 
and  ask  me  anything  about  London  you  may  wish 
to  know.  It's  a  very  large  city — a  cruel  one!" — and 
he  looked  at  her  with  compassionate  kindness — 
"You  mustn't  lose  yourself  in  it!" 

She  read  the  name  on  the  card — "John  Harring- 
ton"— and  the  address  was  the  office  of  a  famous 
daily  journal.  Looking  up,  she  gave  him  a  grateful 
little  smile. 

"You  are  very  kind!"  she  said — "And  I  will  not 
forget  you.  I  don't  think  I  shall  lose  myself — I'll 
try  not  to  be  so  stupid !  Yes — when  I  have  read  one 
of  your  books  I  will  write  to  you!" 

"Do!" — and  there  was  almost  a  note  of  eager- 
ness in  his  voice — "I  should  like  to  know  what  you 
think" — here  a  loud  and  persistent  scream  from  the 
engine-whistle  drowned  all  possibility  of  speech  as 
the  train  rushed  past  a  bewildering  wilderness  of 
houses  packed  close  together  under  bristling  black 
chimneys — then,  as  the  deafening  din  ceased,  he 
added,  quietly,  "Here  is  London." 

She  looked  out  of  the  window, — the  sun  was  shin- 
ing, but  through  a  dull  brown  mist,  and  nothing  but 
bricks  and  mortar,  building  upon  building,  met  her 
view.  After  the  sweet  freshness  of  the  country  she 
had  left  behind,  the  scene  was  appallingly  hideous, 
and  her  heart  sank  with  a  sense  of  fear  and  fore- 
boding. Another  few  minutes  and  the  train  stopped. 

"This  is  Paddington,"  said  John  Harrington ;  then, 
noting  her  troubled  expression — "Let  me  get  a  taxi 
for  you  and  tell  the  man  where  to  drive." 

She  submitted  in  a  kind  of  stunned  bewilderment. 
The  address  she  had  found  in  the  "Morning  Post" 
was  her  rescue — she  could  go  there,  she  thought, 
rapidly,  even  if  she  had  to  come  away  again.  Al- 
most before  she  could  realise  what  had  happened  in 
all  the  noise  and  bustling  to  and  fro,  she  found  her- 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     221 

self  in  a  taxi-cab,  and  her  kind  fellow-traveller  stand- 
ing beside  it,  raising  his  hat  to  her  courteously  in 
farewell.  She  gave  him  the  address  of  the  house  in 
Kensington  which  she  had  copied  from  the  adver- 
tisement she  had  seen  in  the  "Morning  Post,"  and 
he  repeated  it  to  the  taxi-driver  with  a  sense  of  relief 
and  pleasure.  It  was  what  is  called  "a  respectable 
address" — and  he  was  glad  the  child  knew  where  she 
was  going.  In  another  moment  the  taxi  was  off, — a 
parting  smile  brightened  the  wistful  expression  of 
her  young  face,  and  she  waved  her  little  hand  to 
him.  And  then  she  was  whirled  away  among  the 
seething  crowd  of  vehicles  and  lost  to  sight.  Old 
John  Harrington  stood  for  a  moment  on  the  railway- 
platform,  lost  in  thought. 

"A  sweet  little  soul!"  he  mused — "I  wonder  what 
will  become  of  her!  I  must  see  her  again  some  day. 
She  reminds  me  of — let  me  see! — who  does  she  re- 
mind me  of?  By  Jove,  I  have  it!  Pierce  Armitage! 
— haven't  seen  him  for  twenty  years  at  least — and 
this  girl's  face  has  a  look  of  his — just  the  same  eyes 
and  intense  expression.  Poor  old  Armitage! — he 
promised  to  be  a  great  artist  once,  but  he's  gone  to 
the  dogs  by  this  time,  I  suppose.  Curious,  curious 
that  I  should  remember  him  just  now!" 

And  he  went  his  way,  thinking  and  wondering, 
while  Innocent  went  hers,  without  any  thought  at 
all,  in  a  blind  and  simple  faith  that  God  would  take 
care  of  her. 


CHAPTER  XII 

To  be  whirled  along  through  the  crowded  streets 
of  London  in  a  taxi-cab  for  the  first  time  in  one's 
life  must  needs  be  a  somewhat  disconcerting,  even 
alarming  experience,  and  Innocent  was  the  poor  lit- 
tle prey  of  so  many  nervous  fears  during  her  journey 
to  Kensington  in  this  fashion,  that  she  could  think 
of  nothing  and  realise  nothing  except  that  at  any 
moment  it  seemed  likely  she  would  be  killed.  With 
wide-open,  terrified  eyes,  she  watched  the  huge  mo- 
tor-omnibuses almost  bearing  down  upon  the  vehi- 
cle in  which  she  sat,  and  shivered  at  the  narrow  mar- 
gin of  space  the  driver  seemed  to  allow  for  any  sort 
of  escape  from  instant  collision  and  utter  disaster. 
She  only  began  to  breathe  naturally  again  when, 
turning  away  out  of  the  greater  press  of  traffic,  the 
cab  began  to  run  at  a  smoother  and  less  noisy  pace, 
till  presently,  in  less  time  than  she  could  have  im- 
agined possible,  it  drew  up  at  a  modestly  retreating 
little  door  under  an  arched  porch  in  a  quiet  little 
square,  where  there  were  some  brave  and  pretty 
trees  doing  their  best  to  be  green,  despite  London 
soot  and  smoke.  Innocent  stepped  out,  and  seeing 
a  bell-handle  pulled  it  timidly.  The  summons  was 
answered  by  a  very  neat  maid-servant,  who  looked 
at  her  in  primly  polite  enquiry. 

"Is  Mrs. — or  Miss  'Lavinia'  at  home?"  she  mur- 
mured. "I  saw  her  advertisement  in  the  'Morning 
Post/  " 

The  servant's  face  changed  from  primness  to  pro- 
pitiation. 

222 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     223 

"Oh  yes,  miss!  Please  step  in!  I'll  tell  Miss 
Leigh."' 

"Thank  you.    I'll  pay  the  driver." 

She  thereupon  paid  for  the  cab  and  dismissed  it, 
and  then  followed  the  maid  into  a  very  small  but 
prettily  arranged  hall,  and  from  thence  into  a  charm- 
ing little  drawing-room,  with  French  windows  set 
open,  showing  a  tiny  garden  beyond — a  little  green 
lawn,  smooth  as  velvet,  and  a  few  miniature  flower- 
beds gay  with  well-kept  blossoms. 

"Would  you  please  take  a  seat,  miss?"  and  the 
maid  placed  a  chair.  "Miss  Leigh  is  upstairs,  but 
she'll  be  down  directly." 

She  left  the  room,  closing  the  door  softly  behind 
her. 

Innocent  sat  still,  satchel  in  hand,  looking  wist- 
fully about  her.  The  room  appealed  to  her  taste  in 
its  extreme  simplicity — and  it  instinctively  suggested 
to  her  mind  resigned  poverty  making  the  best  of 
itself.  There  were  one  or  two  old  miniatures  on  lit- 
tle velvet  stands  set  on  the  mantelpiece — these  were 
beautiful,  and  of  value;  some  engravings  of  famous 
pictures  adorned  the  walls, all  well  chosen;  the  quaint 
china  bowl  on  the  centre  table  was  full  of  roses  care- 
fully arranged — and  there  was  a  very  ancient  harpsi- 
chord in  one  corner  which  apparently  served  only  as 
a  stand  for  the  portrait  of  a  man's  strikingly  hand- 
some face,  near  which  was  placed  a  vase  containing 
a  stem  of  Madonna  lilies.  Innocent  found  herself 
looking  at  this  portrait  now  and  again — there  was 
something  familiar  in  its  expression  which  had  a  curi- 
ous fascination  for  her.  But  her  thoughts  revolved 
chiefly  round  a  difficulty  which  had  just  presented 
itself — she  had  no  real  name.  What  name  could  she 
take  to  be  known  by  for  the  moment?  She  woulcj 
not  call  herself  "Jocelyn" — she  felt  she  had  no  right 
to  do  so.  "Ena"  might  pass  muster  for  an  abbrevia- 


224  INNOCENT 

tion  of  "Innocent" — she  decided  to  make  use  of  that 
as  a  Christian  name — but  a  surname  that  would  be 
appropriately  fitted  to  her  ultimate  intentions  she 
could  not  at  once  select.  Then  she  suddenly  thought 
of  the  man  who  had  been  her  father  and  had  brought 
her  as  a  helpless  babe  to  Briar  Farm.  Pierce  Armi- 
tage  was  his  name — and  he  was  dead.  Surely  she 
might  call  herself  Armitage?  While  she  was  still 
puzzling  her  mind  over  the  question  the  door  opened 
and  a  little  old  lady  entered — a  soft-eyed,  pale, 
pretty  old  lady,  as  dainty  and  delicate  as  the  fairy- 
godmother  of  a  child's  dream,  with  white  hair 
bunched  on  either  side  of  her  face,  and  a  wistful, 
rather  plaintive  expression  of  mingled  hope  and  en- 
quiry. 

"I'm  sorry  to  keep  you  waiting,"  she  began — then 
paused  in  a  kind  of  embarrassment.  The  two  looked 
at  each  other.  Innocent  spoke,  a  little  shyly: 

"I  saw  your  advertisement  in  the  'Morning  Post/  ' 
she  said,  "and  I  thought  perhaps — I  thought  that  I 
might  come  to  you  as  a  paying  guest.    I  have  to  live 
in  London,  and  I  shall  be  very  busy  studying  all  day, 
so  I  should  not  give  you  much  trouble." 

"Pray  do  not  mention  it!"  said  the  old  lady,  with 
a  quaint  air  of  old-fashioned  courtesy.  "Trouble 
would  not  be  considered!  But  you  are  a  much 
younger  person  than  I  expected  or  wished  to  accom- 
modate." 

"You  said  in  the  advertisement  that  it  would  be 
suitable  for  a  person  studying  art,  or  for  a  scholar- 
ship," put  in  Innocent,  quickly.  "And  I  am  studying 
for  literature." 

"Are  you  indeed?"  and  the  old  lady  waved  a  little 
hand  in  courteous  deprecation  of  all  unnecessary  ex- 
planation— a  hand  which  Innocent  noticed  had  a 
delicate  lace  mitten  on  it  and  one  or  two  sparkling 
rings.  "Well,  let  us  sit  down  together  and  talk  it 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     225 

over.  I  have  two  spare  rooms — a  bedroom  and  a 
sitting-room — they  are  small  but  very  comfortable, 
and  for  these  I  have  been  told  I  should  ask  three 
guineas  a  week,  including  board.  I  feel  it  a  little 
difficult" — and  the  old  lady  heaved  a  sigh — "I  have 
never  done  this  kind  of  thing  before — I  don't  know 
what  my  poor  father,  Major  Leigh,  would  have  said 
— he  was  a  very  proud  man — very  proud !" 

While  she  thus  talked,  Innocent  had  been  making 
a  rapid  calculation  in  her  own  mind.  Three  guineas 
a  week!  It  was  more  than  she  had  meant  to  pay, 
but  she  was  instinctively  wise  enough  to  realise  the 
advantage  of  safety  and  shelter  in  this  charming 
little  home  of  one  who  was  evidently  a  lady,  gentle, 
kindly,  and  well-mannered.  She  had  plenty  of  money 
to  go  on  with — and  in  the  future  she  hoped  to  make 
more.  So  she  spoke  out  bravely. 

"I  will  pay  the  three  guineas  a  week  gladly,"  she 
said.  "May  I  see  the  rooms?" 

The  old  lady  meanwhile  had  been  studying  her 
with  great  intentness,  and  now  asked  abruptly — 

"Are  you  an  English  girl?" 

Innocent  flushed  a  sudden  rosy  red. 

"Yes.  I  was  brought  up  in  the  country,  but  all 
my  people  are  dead  now.  I  have  no  friends,  but  I 
have  a  little  money  left  to  me — and  for  the  rest — I 
must  earn  my  own  living." 

"Well,  my  dear,  that  won't  hurt  you!"  and  an 
encouraging  smile  brightened  Miss  Leigh's  pleasantly 
wrinkled  face.  "You  shall  see  the  rooms.  But  you 
have  not  told  me  your  name  yet." 

Again  Innocent  blushed. 

"My  name  is  Armitage,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  hesi- 
tating tone — "Ena  Armitage." 

"Armitage!" — Miss  Leigh  repeated  the  name  with 
a  kind  of  wondering  accents— "Armitage?  Are  you 
any  relative  of  the  painter,  Pierce  Armitage?" 


226  INNOCENT 

The  girl's  heart  beat  quickly — for  a  moment  the 
little  drawing-room  seemed  to  whirl  round  her — then 
she  collected  her  forces  with  a  strong  effort  and  an- 
swered—"No!" 

The  old  lady's  wistful  blue  eyes,  dimmed  with  age, 
yet  retaining  a  beautiful  tenderness  of  expression, 
rested  upon  her  anxiously. 

"You  are  quite  sure?" 

Repressing  the  feeling  that  prompted  her  to  cry 
out — "He  was  my  father!"  she  replied — 

"I  am  quite  sure!" 

Lavinia  Leigh  raised  her  little  mittened  hand 
and  pointed  to  the  portrait  standing  on  the  harpsi- 
chord : 

"That  was  Pierce  Armitage!"  she  said.  "He  was 
a  dear  friend  of  mine" — her  voice  trembled  a  little — 
"and  I  should  have  been  glad  if  you  had  been  in 
any  way  connected  with  him." 

As  she  spoke  Innocent  turned  and  looked  steadily 
at  the  portrait,  and  it  seemed  to  her  excited  fancy 
that  its  eyes  gave  her  glance  for  glance.  She  could 
hardly  breathe — the  threatening  tears  half  choked 
her.  What  strange  fate  was  it,  she  thought,  that  had 
led  her  to  a  house  where  she  looked  upon  her  own 
father's  likeness  for  the  first  time! 

"He  was  a  very  fine  man,"  continued  Miss  Leigh 
in  the  same  half-tremulous  voice — "very  gifted — 
very  clever!  He  would  have  been  a  great  artist,  I 
think " 

"Is  he  dead?"  the  girl  asked,  quietly. 

"Yes — I — I  think  so — he  died  abroad — so  they  say, 
but  I  have  never  quite  believed  it — I  don't  know 
why !  Come,  let  me  show  you  the  rooms.  I  am  glad 
your  name  is  Armitage." 

She  led  the  way,  walking  slowly, — Innocent  fol- 
lowed like  one  in  a  dream.  They  ascended  a  small 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     227 

staircase,  softly  carpeted,  to  a  square  landing,  and 
here  Miss  Leigh  opened  a  door. 

"This  is  the  sitting-room,"  she  said.  "You  see,  it 
has  a  nice  bow-window  with  a  view  of  the  garden. 
The  bedroom  is  just  beyond  it — both  lead  into  one 
another." 

Innocent  looked  in  and  could  not  resist  giving  a 
little  exclamation  of  pleasure.  Everything  was  so 
clean  and  dainty  and  well  kept — it  seemed  to  her  a 
perfect  haven  of  rest  and  shelter.  She  turned  to 
Miss  Leigh  in  eager  impulsiveness. 

"Oh,  please  let  me  stay!"  she  said.  "Now,  at 
once!  I  have  only  just  arrived  in  London  and  this 
is  the  first  place  I  have  seen.  It  seems  so — so  fortu- 
nate that  you  should  have  had  a  friend  named  Armi- 
tage!  Perhaps — perhaps  I  may  be  a  friend  too!" 

A  curious  tremor  seemed  to  pass  over  the  old  lady 
as  though  she  shivered  in  a  cold  wind.  She  laid  one 
hand  gently  on  the  girl's  arm. 

"You  may,  indeed!"  she  said.  "One  never  can 
tell  what  may  happen  in  this  strange  world!  But 
we  have  to  be  practical — and  I  am  very  poor  and 
pressed  for  money.  I  do  not  know  you — and  of 
course  I  should  expect  references  from  some  respect- 
able person  who  can  tell  me  who  you  are  and  all 
about  you." 

Innocent  grew  pale.  She  gave  a  little  expressive 
gesture  of  utter  hopelessness. 

"I  cannot  give  you  any  references,"  she  said — "I 
am  quite  alone  in  the  world — my  people  are  dead — 
you  see  I  am  in  mourning.  The  last  friend  I  had 
died  a  little  while  ago  and  left  me  four  hundred 
pounds  in  bank-notes.  I  have  them  here" — and  she 
touched  her  breast — "and  if  you  like  I  will  give  you 
one  of  them  in  advance  payment  for  the  rooms  and 
board  at  once." 

The  old  lady  heaved  a  quick  sharp  sigh.     One 


228  INNOCENT 

hundred  pounds!  It  would  relieve  her  of  a  weight 

of  pressing  difficulty — and  yet !  She  paused, 

considering. 

"No,  my  child!"  she  said,  quietly.  "I  would  not 
on  any  account  take  so  much  money  from  you. 
If  you  wish  to  stay,  and  if  I  must  omit  references 
and  take  you  on  trust — which  I  am  quite  willing  to 
do!" — and  she  smiled,  gravely — "I  will  accept  two 
months'  rent  in  advance  if  you  think  you  can  spare 
this — can  you?" 

"Yes — oh,  yes!"  the  girl  exclaimed,  impulsively. 
"If  only  I  may  stay — now!" 

"You  may  certainly  stay  now,"  and  Miss  Leigh 
rang  a  bell  to  summon  the  neat  maid-servant.  "Ra- 
chel, the  rooms  are  let  to  this  young  lady,  Miss  Armi- 
tage.  Will  you  prepare  the  bedroom  and  help  her 
unpack  her  things?"  Then,  turning  round  to  Inno- 
cent, she  said  kindly, — "You  will  of  course  take 
your  meals  with  me  at  my  table — I  keep  very  regu- 
lar hours,  and  if  for  any  cause  you  have  to  be  ab- 
sent, I  should  wish  to  know  beforehand." 

Innocent  said  nothing; — her  eyes  were  full  of 
tears,  but  she  took  the  old  lady's  little  hand  and 
kissed  it.  They  went  down  together  again  to  the 
drawing-room,  Innocent  just  pausing  to  tell  the 
maid  Rachel  that  she  would  prefer  to  unpack  and 
arrange  the  contents  of  her  satchel — all  her  luggage, 
— herself;  and  in  a  very  few  minutes  the  whole 
business  was  settled.  Eager  to  prove  her  good  faith 
to  the  gentle  lady  who  had  so  readily  trusted  her, 
she  drew  from  her  bosom  the  envelope  containing 
the  bank-notes  left  to  her  by  Hugo  Jocelyn,  and, 
unfolding  all  four,  she  spread  them  out  on  the  ta- 
ble. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "this  is  my  little  fortune! 
Please  change  one  of  them  and  take  the  two  months' 
rent  and  anything  more  you  want — please  do!" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     229 

A  faint  colour  flushed  Miss  Leigh's  pale  cheeks. 

"No,  my  dear,  no!"  she  answered.  "You  must 
not  tempt  me !  I  will  take  exactly  the  two  months' 
rent  and  no  more;  but  I  think  you  ought  not  to 
carry  this  money  about  with  you — you  should  put 
it  in  a  bank.  We'll  talk  of  this  afterwards — but  go 
and  lock  it  up  somewhere  now — there's  a  little  desk 
in  your  room  you  could  use — but  a  bank  would  be 
safest.  After  dinner  this  evening  I'll  tell  you  what 
I  think  you  ought  to  do — you  are  so  very  young!" 
— and  she  smiled — "such  a  young  little  thing!  I 
shall  have  to  look  after  you  and  play  chaperone!" 

Innocent  looked  up  with  a  sweet  confidence  in  her 
eyes. 

"That  will  be  kind  of  you!"  she  said,  and  leaving 
the  one  bank-note  of  a  hundred  pounds  on  the  table, 
she  folded  up  the  other  three  in  their  original  en- 
velope and  returned  them  to  their  secret  place  of 
safety.  "In  a  little  while  I  will  tell  you  a  great  deal 
about  myself — and  I  do  hope  I  shall  please  you !  I 
will  not  give  any  trouble,  and  I'll  try  to  be  useful  in 
the  house  if  you'll  let  me.  I  can  cook  and  sew  and 
do  all  sorts  of  things!" 

"Can  you,  indeed!"  and  Miss  Leigh  laughed 
good-naturedly.  "And  what  about  studying  for 
literature?" 

"Ah! — that  of  course  comes  first!"  she  said.  "But 
I  shall  do  all  my  writing  in  the  mornings — in  the 
afternoons  I  can  help  you  as  much  as  you  like." 

"My  dear,  your  time  must  be  your  own,"  said  Miss 
Leigh,  decisively.  "You  have  paid  for  your  accom- 
modation, and  you  must  have  perfect  liberty  to  do 
as  you  like,  as  long  as  you  keep  to  my  regular  hours 
for  meals  and  bed-time.  I  think  we  shall  get  on 
well  together, — and  I  hope  we  shall  be  good  friends!" 

As  she  spoke  she  bent  forward  and  on  a  sudden 
impulse  drew  the  girl  to  her  and  kissed  her.  Poor 


230  INNOCENT 

lonely  Innocent  thrilled  through  all  her  being  to  the 
touch  of  instinctive  tenderness,  and  her  heart  beat 
quickly  as  she  saw  the  portrait  on  the  harpsichord — 
her  father's  pictured  face — apparently  looking  at  her 
with  a  smile. 

"Oh,  you  are  very  good  to  me!"  she  murmured, 
with  a  little  sob  in  her  breath,  as  she  returned  the 
gentle  old  lady's  kiss.  "I  feel  as  if  I  had  known 
you  for  years!  Did  you  know  him" — and  she 
pointed  to  the  portrait — "very  long?" 

Miss  Leigh's  eyes  grew  bright  and  tender. 

"Yes!"  she  answered.  "We  were  boy  and  girl 
together — and  once— once  we  were  very  fond  of  each 
other.  Perhaps  I  will  tell  you  the  story  some  day! 
Now  go  up  to  your  rooms  and  arrange  everything  as 
you  like,  and  rest  a  little.  Would  you  like  some  tea? 
Anything  to  eat?" 

Poor  Innocent,  who  had  left  Briar  Farm  at  dawn 
without  any  thought  of  food,  and  had  travelled  to 
London  almost  unconscious  of  either  hunger  or  fa- 
tigue, was  beginning  to  feel  the  lack  of  nourishment, 
and  she  gratefully  accepted  the  suggestion. 

"I  lunch  at  two  o'clock,"  continued  Miss  Leigh. 
"But  it's  only  a  little  past  twelve  now,  and  if  you 
have  come  a  long  way  from  the  country  you  must 
be  tired.  I'll  send  Rachel  up  to  you  with  some  tea." 

She  went  to  give  the  order,  and  Innocent,  left  to 
herself  for  a  moment,  moved  softly  up  to  her  father's 
picture  and  gazed  upon  it  with  all  her  soul  in  her 
eyes.  It  was  a  wonderful  face — a  face  expressive  of 
the  highest  thought  and  intelligence — the  face  of  a 
thinker  or  a  poet,  though  the  finely  moulded  mouth 
and  chin  had  nothing  of  the  weakness  which  some- 
times marks  a  mere  dreamer  of  dreams.  Timidly 
glancing  about  her  to  make  sure  she  was  not  ob- 
served, she  kissed  the  portrait,  the  cold  glass  which 
covered  it  meeting  her  warm  caressing  lips  with  a 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     231 

repelling  chill.  He  was  dead — this  father  whom  she 
could  never  claim! — dead  as  Hugo  Jocelyn,  who  had 
taken  that  father's  place  in  her  life.  She  might 
love  the  ghost  of  him  if  her  fancy  led  her  that  way, 
as  she  loved  the  ghost  of  the  "Sieur  Amadis" — but 
there  was  nothing  else  to  love!  She  was  alone  in 
the  world,  with  neither  father  nor  "knight  of  old" 
to  protect  or  defend  her,  and  on  herself  alone  de- 
pended her  future.  She  turned  away  and  left  the 
room,  looking  a  fragile,  sad,  unobtrusive  little  crea- 
ture, with  nothing  about  her  to  suggest  either  beauty 
or  power.  Yet  the  mind  in  that  delicate  body  had 
a  strength  of  which  she  was  unconscious,  and  she 
was  already  bending  it  instinctively  and  intellec- 
tually like  a  bow  ready  for  the  first  shot — with  an 
arrow  which  was  destined  to  go  straight  to  its 
mark. 

Meanwhile  on  Briar  Farm  there  had  fallen  a  cloud 
of  utter  desolation.  The  day  was  fair  and  brilliant 
with  summer  sunshine,  the  birds  sang,  the  roses 
bloomed,  the  doves  flew  to  and  fro  on  the  gabled 
roof,  and  Innocent's  pet  "Cupid"  waited  in  vain  on 
the  corner  of  her  window-sill  for  the  usual  summons 
that  called  it  to  her  hand, — but  a  strange  darkness 
and  silence  like  a  whelming  wave  submerged  the 
very  light  from  the  eyes  of  those  who  suddenly 
found  themselves  deprived  of  a  beloved  presence — a 
personality  unobtrusively  sweet,  which  had  be- 
stowed on  the  old  house  a  charm  and  grace  far 
greater  than  had  been  fully  recognised.  The  "base- 
born"  Innocent,  nameless,  and  unbaptised,  and  there- 
fore shadowed  by  the  stupid  scandal  of  common- 
place convention,  had  given  the  "home"  its  home- 
like quality — her  pretty  idealistic  fancies  about  the 
old  sixteenth-century  knight  "Sieur  Amadis"  had 
invested  the  place  with  a  touch  of  romance  and 


232  INNOCENT 

poetry  which  it  would  hardly  have  possessed  with- 
out her — her  gentle  ways,  her  care  of  the  flowers 
and  the  animals,  and  the  never-wearying  delight 
she  had  taken  in  the  household  affairs — all  her  part 
in  the  daily  life  of  the  farm  had  been  as  necessary 
to  happiness  as  the  mastership  of  Hugo  Jocelyn 
himself — and  without  her  nothing  seemed  the  same. 
Poor  Priscilla  went  about  her  work,  crying  silently, 
and  Robin  Clifford  paced  restlessly  up  and  down 
the  smooth  grass  in  front  of  the  old  house  with  In- 
nocent's farewell  letter  in  his  hand,  reading  it  again 
and  again.  He  had  returned  early  from  the  market 
town  where  he  had  stayed  the  night,  eager  to  ex- 
plain to  her  all  the  details  of  the  business  he  had 
gone  through  with  the  lawyer  to  whom  his  Uncle 
Hugo  had  entrusted  his  affairs,  and  to  tell  her  how 
admirably  everything  had  been  arranged  for  the 
prosperous  continuance  of  Briar  Farm  on  the  old 
traditional  methods  of  labour  by  which  it  had  always 
been  worked  to  advantage.  Hugo  Jocelyn  had  in- 
deed shown  plenty  of  sound  wisdom  and  foresight 
in  all  his  plans  save  one — and  that  one  was  his 
fixed  idea  of  Innocent's  marriage  with  his  nephew. 
It  had  evidently  never  occurred  to  him  that  a  girl 
could  have  a  will  of  her  own  in  such  a  momentous 
affair — much  less  that  she  could  or  would  be  so 
unwise  as  to  refuse  a  good  husband  and  a  settled 
home  when  both  were  at  hand  for  her  acceptance. 
Robin  himself,  despite  her  rejection  of  him,  had  still 
hoped  and  believed  that  when  the  first  shock  of  his 
uncle's  death  had  lessened,  he  might  by  patience  and 
unwearying  tenderness  move  her  heart  to  softer 
yielding,  and  he  had  meant  to  plead  his  cause  with 
her  for  the  sake  of  the  famous  old  house  itself,  so 
that  she  might  become  its  mistress  and  help  him 
to  prove  a  worthy  descendant  of  its  long  line  of 
owners.  But  now!  All  hope  was  at  an  end — she 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     233 

had  taken  the  law  into  her  own  hands  and  gone — 
no  one  knew  whither.  Priscilla  was  the  last  who 
had  seen  her — Priscilla  could  only  explain,  with 
many  tears,  that  when  she  had  gone  to  call  her  to 
breakfast  she  had  found  her  room  vacant,  her  bed 
unslept  in,  and  the  letter  for  Robin  on  the  table — 
and  that  letter  disclosed  little  or  nothing  of  her 
intentions. 

"Oh,  the  poor  child!"  Priscilla  said,  sobbingly. 
"All  alone  in  a  hard  world,  with  her  strange  little 
fancies,  and  no  one  to  take  care  of  her!  Oh,  Mr. 
Robin,  whatever  are  we  to  do!" 

"Nothing!"  and  Robin's  handsome  face  was  pale 
and  set.  "We  can  only  wait  to  hear  from  her — she 
will  not  keep  us  long  in  anxiety — she  has  too  much 
heart  for  that.  After  all,  it  is  my  fault,  Priscilla! 
I  tried  to  persuade  her  to  marry  me  against  her 
will — I  should  have  let  her  alone." 

Sudden  boyish  te^rs  sprang  to  his  eyes — he  dashed 
them  away  in  self-contempt. 

"I'm  a  regular  coward,  you  see,"  he  said.  "I  could 
cry  like  a  baby — not  for  myself  so  much,  but  to 
think  of  her  running  away  from  Briar  Farm  out  into 
the  wide  world  all  alone!  Little  Innocent!  She 
was  safe  here — and  if  she  had  wished  it,  /  would  have 
gone  away — I  would  have  made  her  the  owner  of 
the  farm,  and  left  her  in  peace  to  enjoy  it  and  to 
marry  any  other  man  she  fancied.  But  she  wouldn't 
listen  to  any  plan  for  her  own  happiness  since  she 
knew  she  was  not  my  uncle's  daughter — that  is  what 
has  changed  her!  I  wish  she  had  never  known!" 

"Ay,  so  do  I!"  agreed  Priscilla,  dolefully.  "But 
she's  got  the  fancifullest  notions !  All  about  that  old 
stone  knight  in  the  garden — an'  what  wi'  the  things 
he's  left  carved  all  over  the  wall  of  the  room  where 
she  read  them  queer  old  books,  she's  fair  'mazed  with 
ideas  that  don't  belong  to  the  ways  o'  the  world  at 


234  INNOCENT 

all.  I  can't  think  what'll  become  o'  the  child.  Won't 
there  be  any  means  of  findin'  out  where  she's  gone?" 

"I'm  afraid  not!"  answered  Robin,  sadly.  "We 
muse  trust  to  her  remembrance  of  us,  Priscilla,  and 
her  thoughts  of  the  old  home  where  she  was  loved 
and  cared  for."  His  voice  shook.  "It  will  be  a  dreary 
place  without  her !  We  shall  miss  her  every  minute, 
every  hour  of  the  day!  I  cannot  fancy  what  the 
garden  will  look  like  without  her  little  white  figure 
flitting  over  the  grass,  and  her  sweet  fair  face  smiling 
among  the  roses!  Hang  it  all,  Priscilla,  if  it  were 
not  for  the  last  wishes  of  my  Uncle  Hugo  I'd  throw 
the  whole  thing  up  and  go  abroad!" 

"Don't  do  that,  Mister  Robin!" — and  Priscilla  laid 
her  rough  work-worn  hand  on  his  arm — "Don't  do 
it!  It's  turning  your  back  on  duty  to  give  up  the 
work  entrusted  to  you  by  a  dead  man.  You  know 
it  is!  An'  the  child  may  come  back  any  day!  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  she  got  frightened  at  being  alone 
and  ran  home  again  to-morrow !  Think  of  it,  Mister 
Robin!  Suppose  she  came  an'  you  weren't  here? 
Why,  you'd  never  forgive  yourself!  I  can't  think 
she's  gone  far  or  that  she'll  stay  away  long.  Her 
heart's  in  Briar  Farm  all  the  while — I'd  swear  to 
that!  Why,  only  yesterday  when  a  fine  lady  came 
to  see  if  she  couldn't  buy  something  out  o'  the  house, 
you  should  just  a'  seen  her  toss  her  pretty  little 
head  when  she  told  me  how  she'd  said  it  wasn't  to 
be  sold." 

"Lady?  What  lady?"  and  Robin  looked,  as  he 
felt,  bewildered  by  Priscilla's  vague  statement.  "Did 
someone  come  here  to  see  the  house?" 

"Not  exactly— I  don't  know  what  it  was  all 
about,"  replied  Priscilla.  "But  quite  a  grand  lady 
called  an'  gave  me  her  card.  I  saw  the  name  on  it — 
'Lady  Maude  Blythe' — and  she  asked  to  see  'Miss 
Jocelyn'  on  business.  I  asked  if  it  was  anything  I 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     235 

could  do,  and  she  said  no.  So  I  called  the  child  in 
from  the  garden,  and  she  and  the  lady  had  quite  a 
long  talk  together  in  the  best  parlour.  Then  when 
the  lady  went  away,  Innocent  told  me  that  she  had 
wished  to  buy  something  from  Briar  Farm — but  that 
it  was  not  to  be  sold." 

Robin  listened  attentively.  "Curious!"  he  mur- 
mured— "very  curious !  What  was  the  lady's  name?" 

"Lady  Maude  Blythe,"  repeated  Priscilla,  slowly. 

He  took  out  a  note-book  and  pencil,  and  wrote  it 
down. 

"You  don't  think  she  came  to  engage  Innocent 
for  some  service?"  he  asked.  "Or  that  Innocent 
herself  had  perhaps  written  to  an  agency  asking  for 
a  place,  and  that  this  lady  had  come  to  see  her  in 
consequence?" 

Such  an  idea  had  never  occurred  to  Priscilla's 
mind,  but  now  it  was  suggested  to  her  it  seemed 
more  than  likely. 

"It  might  be  so,"  she  answered,  slowly.  "But  I 
can't  bear  to  think  the  child  was  playin'  a  part  an' 
tellin'  me  things  that  weren't  true  just  to  get  away 
from  us.  No !  Mister  Robin !  I  don't  believe  that 
lady  had  anything  to  do  with  her  going." 

"Well,  I  shall  keep  the  name  by  me,"  he  said. 
"And  I  shall  find  out  where  the  lady  lives,  who  she 
is  and  all  about  her.  For  if  I  don't  hear  from  Inno- 
cent, if  she  doesn't  write  to  us,  I'll  search  the  whole 
world  and  never  rest  till  I  find  her!" 

Priscilla  looked  at  him,  pityingly,  tears  springing 
again  to  her  eyes. 

"Aye,  you've  lost  the  love  o'  your  heart,  my  lad! 
I  know  that  well  enough!"  she  said.  "An'  it's 
mighty  hard  on  you !  But  you  must  be  a  man  an' 
turn  to  work  as  though  nowt  had  happened.  There's 
the  farm " 

"Yes,  there's  the  farm,"  he  repeated,  absently. 


236  INNOCENT 

"But  what  do  I  care  for  the  farm  without  her! 
Priscilla,  you  will  stay  with  me?" 

"Stay  with  you?  Surely  I  will,  Mister  Robin! 
Where  should  an  old  woman  like  me  go  to  at  this 
time  o'  day!"  and  Priscilla  took  his  hand  and  clasped 
it  affectionately.  "Don't  you  fear!  My  place  is  in 
Briar  Farm  till  the  Lord  makes  an  end  of  me!  And 
if  the  child  comes  back  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or 
night,  she'll  find  old  Priscilla  ready  to  welcome  her, 
— ready  an'  glad  an'  thankful  to  see  her  pretty  face 
again." 

Here,  unable  to  control  her  sobs,  she  turned  away 
and  made  a  hasty  retreat  into  the  kitchen. 

He  did  not  follow  her,  but  acting  on  the  sudden 
impulse  of  his  mind  he  entered  the  house  and  went 
up  to  Innocent's  deserted  room.  He  opened  the  door 
hesitatingly, — the  little  study,  in  its  severe  simplicity 
and  neatness,  looked  desolate — like  an  empty  shrine 
from  which  the  worshipped  figure  had  been  taken. 
He  trod  softly  across  the  floor,  hushing  his  footsteps, 
as  though  some  one  slept  whom  he  feared  to  wake, 
and  his  eyes  wandered  from  one  familiar  object  to 
another  till  they  rested  on  the  shelves  where  the  old 
vellum-bound  books,  which  Innocent  had  loved  and 
studied  so  much,  were  ranged  in  orderly  rows.  Tak- 
ing one  or  two  of  them  out  he  glanced  at  their  title- 
pages; — he  knew  that  most  of  them  were  rare  and 
curious,  though  his  Oxford  training  had  not  im- 
pressed him  with  as  great  a  love  of  things  literary  as 
it  might  or  should  have  done.  But  he  realised  that 
these  strange  black-letter  and  manuscript  volumes 
were  of  unique  value,  and  that  their  contents,  so 
difficult  to  decipher,  were  responsible  for  the  forma- 
tion of  Innocent's  guileless  and  romantic  spirit,  col- 
ouring her  outlook  on  life  with  a  glamour  of  rain- 
bow brilliancy  which,  though  beautiful,  was  unreal. 
One  quaint  tittle  book  he  opened  had  for  its  title 


—"Ye  Whole  Art  of  Love,  Setting  Forth  ye  Noble 
Manner  of  Noble  Knights  who  woulde  serve  their 
Ladies  Faithfullie  in  Death  as  in  Lyfe" — this  bore 
the  date  of  1590.  He  sighed  as  he  put  it  back  in  its 
place. 

"Ah,  well,"  he  said,  half  aloud,  "these  books  are 
hers,  and  I'll  keep  them  for  her — but  I  believe 
they've  done  her  a  lot  of  mischief,  and  I  don't  love 
them !  They've  made  her  see  the  world  as  it  is  not 
— and  life  as  it  never  will  be!  And  she  has  got 
strange  fancies  into  her  head — fancies  which  she 
will  run  after  like  a  child  chasing  pretty  butterflies 
— and  when  the  butterflies  are  caught,  they  die, 
much  to  the  child's  surprise  and  sorrow!  My  poor 
little  Innocent!  She  has  gone  out  alone  into  the 
world,  and  the  world  will  break  her  heart!  Oh 
dearest  little  love,  come  back  to  me!" 

He  sat  down  in  her  vacant  chair  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands,  giving  himself  up  to  the  relief 
of  unwitnessed  tears.  Above  his  head  shone  the 
worn  glitter  of  the  old  armoured  device  of  the  "Sieur 
Amadis"  with  its  motto — -"Mon  cceur  me  soutien" 
— and  only  a  psychist  could  have  thought  or  im- 
agined it  possible  that  the  spirit  of  the  old  French 
knight  of  Tudor  times  might  still  be  working  through 
clouds  of  circumstance  and  weaving  the  web  of  the 
future  from  the  torn  threads  of  the  past.  And  when 
Robin  had  regained  his  self-possession  and  had  left 
the  room,  there  was  yet  a  Presence  in  its  very  empti- 
ness,— the  silent  assertion  of  an  influence  which  if 
it  had  been  given  voice  and  speech  might  have  said 
— "Do  what  you  consider  is  your  own  will  and  in- 
tention, but  7  am  still  your  Master! — and  all  your 
thoughts  and  wishes  are  but  the  reflex  of  my  de- 
sire!" 

It  was  soon  known  in  the  village  that  Innocent  had 
left  Briar  Farm — "run  away,"  the  gossips  said,  eager 


238  INNOCENT 

to  learn  more.  But  they  could  get  no  information 
out  of  Robin  Clifford  or  Priscilla  Friday,  and  the 
labourers  on  the  farm  knew  nothing.  The  farm 
work  was  going  on  as  usual — that  was  all  they  cared 
about.  Mr.  Clifford  was  very  silent — Miss  Friday 
very  busy.  However,  all  anxiety  and  suspense  came 
to  an  end  very  speedily  so  far  as  Innocent's  safety 
was  concerned,  for  in  a  few  days  letters  arrived  from 
her — both  for  Robin  and  Priscilla — kind,  sweetly- 
expressed  letters  full  of  the  tenderest  affection. 

"Do  not  be  at  all  sorry  or  worried  about  me,  dear 
good  Priscilla!"  she  wrote.  "I  know  I  am  doing 
right  to  be  away  from  Briar  Farm  for  a  time — and  I 
am  quite  well  and  happy.  I  have  been  very  fortu- 
nate in  finding  rooms  with  a  lady  who  is  very  kind 
to  me,  and  as  soon  as  I  feel  I  can  do  so  I  will  let  you 
know  my  address.  But  I  don't  want  anyone  from 
home  to  come  and  see  me — not  yet! — not  for  a  very- 
long  tune!  It  would  only  make  me  sad — and  it 
would  make  you  sad  too !  But  be  quite  sure  it  will 
not  be  long  before  you  see  me  again." 

Her  letter  to  Robin  was  longer  and  full  of  re- 
strained feeling: 

"I  know  you  are  very  unhappy,  you  kind,  loving 
boy,"  it  ran.  "You  have  lost  me  altogether — yes, 
that  is  true — but  do  not  mind,  it  is  better  so,  and 
you  will  love  some  other  girl  much  more  than  me 
some  day.  I  should  have  been  a  mistake  in  your  life 
had  I  stayed  with  you.  You  will  see  me  again — 
and  you  will  then  understand  why  I  left  Briar  Farm. 
I  could  not  wrong  the  memory  of  the  Sieur  Amadis, 
and  if  I  married  you  I  should  be  doing  a  wicked 
thing  to  bring  myself,  who  am  base-born,  into  his 
lineage.  Surely  you  do  understand  how  I  feel?  I  am 
quite  safe — in  a  good  home,  with  a  lady  who  takes 
care  of  me — and  as  soon  as  I  can  I  will  let  you  know 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     239 

exactly  where  I  am. — then  if  you  ever  come  to  Lon- 
don I  will  see  you.  But  your  work  is  on  Briar  Farm — 
that  dear  and  beloved  home ! — and  you  will  keep  up 
its  old  tradition  and  make  everybody  happy  around 
you.  Will  you  not?  Yes !  I  am  sure  you  will !  You 
must,  if  ever  you  loved  me.  "INNOCENT/' 

With  this  letter  his  last  hope  died  within  him. 
She  would  never  be  his — never,  never!  Some  dun 
future  beckoned  her  in  which  he  had  no  part — and 
he  confronted  the  fact  as  a  brave  soldier  fronts  the 
guns,  with  grim  endurance,  aware,  yet  not  afraid  of 
death. 

"If  ever  I  loved  her!"  he  thought.  "If  ever  I 
cease  to  love  her  then  I  shall  be  as  stone-cold  a  man 
as  her  fetish  of  a  French  knight,  the  Sieur  Amadis! 
Ah,  my  little  Innocent,  in  time  to  come  you  may 
understand  what  love  is — perhaps  to  your  sorrow ! — 
you  may  need  a  strong  defender — and  I  shall  be 
ready!  Sooner  or  later — now  or  years  hence — if  you 
call  me,  I  shall  answer.  I  would  find  strength  to 
rise  from  my  death-bed  and  go  to  you  if  you  wanted 
me!  For  I  love  you,  my  little  love!  I  love  you, 
and  nothing  can  change  me.  Only  once  in  a  life- time 
can  a  man  love  any  woman  as  I  love  you!" 

And  with  a  deep  vow  of  fidelity  sworn  to  his  se- 
cret soul  he  sat  alone,  watching  the  shadows  of 
evening  steal  over  the  landscape — falling,  falling 
slowly,  like  a  gradually  descending  curtain  upon  all 
visible  things,  till  Briar  Farm  stood  spectral  in  the 
gloom  like  the  ghost  of  its  own  departed  days,  and 
lights  twinkled  in  the  lattice  windows  like  little  eyes 
glittering  in  the  dark.  Then  silently  bidding  fare- 
well to  all  his  former  dreams  of  happiness,  he  set 
himself  to  face  "the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day" — 
that  long,  long  day  of  life  so  difficult  to  live,  when 
deprived  of  love ! 


BOOK  TWO:  HIS  FACT 


BOOK  TWO 

CHAPTER  I 

IN  London,  the  greatest  metropolis  of  the  world, 
the  smallest  affairs  are  often  discussed  with  more 
keenness  than  things  of  national  importance, — and  it 
is  by  no  means  uncommon  to  find  society  more  in- 
terested in  the  doings  of  some  particular  man  or 
woman  than  in  the  latest  and  most  money-milking 
scheme  of  Government  finance.  In  this  way  it  hap- 
pened that  about  a  year  after  Innocent  had,  like 
a  small  boat  hi  a  storm,  broken  loose  from  her  moor- 
ings and  drifted  out  to  the  wide  sea,  everybody  who 
was  anybody  became  suddenly  thrilled  with  curi- 
osity concerning  the  unknown  personality  of  an  Au- 
thor. There  are  so  many  Authors  nowadays  xthat 
it  is  difficult  to  get  up  even  a  show  of  interest  in  one 
of  them, — everybody  "writes" — from  Miladi  in  Bel- 
gravia,  who  considers  the  story  of  her  social  experi- 
ences, expressed  in  questionable  grammar,  quite 
equal  to  the  finest  literature,  down  to  the  stable- 
boy  who  essays  a  "prize"  shocker  for  a  penny  dread- 
ful. But  this  latest  aspirant  to  literary  fame  had 
two  magnetic  qualities  which  seldom  fail  to  arouse 
the  jaded  spirit  of  the  reading  public, — novelty  and 
mystery,  united  to  that  scarce  and  seldom  recognised 
power  called  genius.  He  or  she  had  produced  a 
Book.  Not  an  ephemeral  piece  of  fiction, — not  a 
"Wells"  effort  of  imagination  under  hydraulic  pres- 
sure— not  an  hysterical  outburst  of  sensual  desire 
and  disappointment  such  as  moves  the  souls  of  demi- 

243 


244  INNOCENT 

mondaines  and  dressmakers, — not  even  a  "detective" 
sensation — but  just  a  Book — a  real  Book,  likely  to 
live  as  long  as  literature  itself.  It  was  something  in 
the  nature  of  a  marvel,  said  those  who  knew  what 
they  were  talking  about,  that  such  a  book  should 
have  been  written  at  all  in  these  modern  days.  The 
"style"  of  it  was  exquisite  and  scholarly — quaint,  ex- 
pressive, and  all-sufficing  in  its  artistic  simplicity, — 
thoughts  true  for  all  time  were  presented  afresh  with 
an  admirable  point  and  delicacy  that  made  them 
seem  new  and  singularly  imperative, — and  the  story 
which,  like  a  silken  thread,  held  all  the  choice  jewels 
of  language  together  in  even  and  brilliant  order,  was 
pure  and  idyllic, — warm  with  a  penetrating  romance, 
yet  most  sincerely  human.  When  this  extraordinary 
piece  of  work  was  published,  it  slipped  from  the 
press  in  quite  a  modest  way  without  much  prelimi- 
nary announcement,  and  for  two  or  three  weeks  after 
its  appearance  nobody  knew  anything  about  it.  The 
publishers  themselves  were  evidently  in  doubt  as  to 
its  reception,  and  signified  their  caution  by  economy 
in  the  way  of  advertisement — it  was  not  placarded  in 
the  newspaper  columns  as  "A  Book  of  the  Century" 
or  "A  New  Literary  Event."  It  simply  glided  into 
the  crowd  of  books  without  noise  or  the  notice  of 
reviewers — just  one  of  a  pushing,  scrambling,  shout- 
ing multitude, — and  quite  suddenly  found  itself  the 
centre  of  the  throng  with  all  eyes  upon  it,  and  all 
tongues  questioning  the  how,  when  and  where  of  its 
author.  No  one  could  say  how  it  first  began  to  be 
thus  busily  talked  about, — the  critics  had  bestowed 
upon  it  nothing  of  either  their  praise  or  blame, — yet 
somehow  the  ball  had  been  set  rolling,  and  it  gath- 
ered size  and  force  as  it  rolled,  till  at  last  the  pub- 
lishers woke  up  to  the  fact  that  they  had,  by  merest 
chance,  hit  upon  a  "paying  concern."  They  at  once 
assisted  in  the  general  chorus  of  delight  and  admira- 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    245 

tion,  taking  wider  space  in  the  advertisement  col- 
umns of  the  press  for  the  "work  of  genius"  which 
had  inadvertently  fallen  into  their  hands — but  when 
it  came  to  answering  the  questions  put  to  them  re- 
specting its  writer  they  had  very  little  to  say,  being 
themselves  more  or  less  in  the  dark. 

"The  manuscript  was  sent  to  us  in  the  usual  way," 
the  head  of  the  firm  explained  to  John  Harrington, 
one  of  the  soundest  and  most  influential  of  journal- 
ists, "just  on  chance, — it  was  neither  introduced  nor 
recommended.  One  of  our  readers  was  immensely 
taken  with  it  and  advised  us  to  accept  it.  The  au- 
thor gave  no  name,  and  merely  requested  all  com- 
munications to  be  made  through  his  secretary,  a 
Miss  Armitage,  as  he  wished  for  the  time  being  to 
remain  anonymous.  We  drew  up  an  Agreement  on 
these  lines  which  was  signed  for  the  author  by  Miss 
Armitage, — she  also  corrected  and  passed  the 
proofs " 

"Perhaps  she  also  wrote  the  book,"  interrupted 
Harrington,  with  an  amused  twinkle  in  his  eyes — 
"I  suppose  such  a  solution  of  the  mystery  has  not 
occurred  to  you?" 

The  publisher  smiled.  "Under  different  circum- 
stances it  might  have  done  so,"  he  replied,  "but  we 
have  seen  Miss  Armitage  several  times — she  is  quite 
a  young  girl,  not  at  all  of  the  'literary'  type,  though 
she  is  very  careful  and  accurate  in  her  secretarial 
work — I  mean  as  regards  business  letters  and  atten- 
tion to  detail.  But  at  her  age  she  could  not  have 
had  the  scholarship  to  produce  such  a  book.  The 
author  shows  a  close  familiarity  with  sixteenth-cen- 
tury literature  such  as  could  only  be  gained  by  a 
student  of  the  style  of  that  period, — Miss  Armitage 
has  nothing  of  the  'book-worm'  about  her — she  is 
quite  a  simple  young  person — more  like  a  bright 
school-girl  than  anything  else " 


246  INNOCENT 

"Where  does  she  live?"  asked  Harrington, 
abruptly. 

The  publisher  looked  up  the  address  and  gave  it. 

"There  it  is,"  he  said;  "if  you  want  to  write  to 
the  author  she  will  forward  any  letters  to  him." 

Harrington  stared  at  the  pencilled  direction  for  a 
moment  in  silence.  He  remembered  it — of  course  he 
remembered  it! — it  was  the  very  address  given  to 
the  driver  of  the  taxi-cab  in  which  the  girl  with 
whom  he  had  travelled  to  London  more  than  a  year 
ago  had  gone,  as  it  seemed,  out  of  his  sight.  Every 
little  incident  connected  with  her  came  freshly  back 
to  his  mind — how  she  had  spoken  of  the  books  she 
loved  in  "old  French"  and  "Elizabethan  English" 
• — and  how  she  had  said  she  knew  the  way  to  earn 
her  own  living.  If  this  was  the  way — if  she  was 
indeed  the  author  of  the  book  which  had  stirred  and 
wakened  the  drowsing  soul  of  the  age,  then  she  had 
not  ventured  in  vain! 

Aloud  he  said: 

"It  seems  to  be  another  case  of  the  'Author  of 
Waverley'  and  the  'Great  Unknown'!  I  suppose 
you'll  take  anything  else  you  can  get  by  the  same 
hand?" 

"Rather!"  And  the  publisher  nodded  emphati- 
cally— "We  have  already  secured  a  second  work." 

"Through  Miss  Armitage?" 

"Yes.    Through  Miss  Armitage." 

Harrington  laughed. 

"I  believe  you're  all  blinder  than  bats!"  he  said — 
"Why  on  earth  you  should  think  that  because  a 
woman  looks  like  a  school-girl  she  cannot  write 
a  clever  book  if  gifted  that  way,  is  a  condition  of 
non-intelligence  I  fail  to  fathom!  You  speak  of 
this  author  as  a  'he.'  Do  you  think  only  a  male 
creature  can  produce  a  work  of  genius?  Look  at 
the  twaddle  men  turn  out  every  day  in  the  form 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    247 

of  novels  alone!  Many  of  them  are  worse  than  the 
worst  weak  fiction  by  women.  I  tell  you  I've  lived 
long  enough  to  know  that  a  woman's  brain  can  beat 
a  man's  if  she  cares  to  test  it,  so  long  as  she  does 
not  fall  in  love.  When  once  that  disaster  happens 
it's  all  over  with  her!  It's  the  one  drawback  to  a 
woman's  career;  if  she  would  only  keep  clear  of  love 
and  self-sacrifice  she'd  do  wonders!  Men  never  al- 
low love  to  interfere  with  so  much  as  their  own 
smoke — very  few  among  them  would  sacrifice  a  good 
cigar  for  a  woman !  As  for  this  girl,  Miss  Armitage, 
I'll  pluck  out  the  heart  of  her  mystery  for  you!  I 
suppose  you  won't  pay  any  less  for  good  work  if  it 
turns  out  to  be  by  a  'she'  instead  of  a  'he'?" 

The  publisher  was  amused. 

"Certainly  not!"  he  answered.  "We  have  al- 
ready paid  over  a  thousand  pounds  in  royalties  on 
the  present  book,  and  we  have  agreed  to  give  two 
thousand  in  advance  on  the  next.  The  author  has 
expressed  himself  as  perfectly  satisfied " 

"Through  Miss  Armitage?"  put  in  Harrington. 

"Yes.    Through  Miss  Armitage." 

"Well!"  And  Harrington  turned  to  go — "I  hope 
Miss  Armitage  will  also  express  herself  as  perfectly 
satisfied  after  I  have  seen  her !  I  shall  write  and  ask 
permission  to  call " 

"Surely" — and  the  publisher  looked  distressed — 
"surely  you  do  not  intend  to  trouble  this  poor  girl 
by  questions  concerning  her  employer?  It's  hardly 
fair  to  her! — and  of  course  it's  only  your  way  of 
joking,  but  your  idea  that  she  wrote  the  book  we're 
all  talking  about  is  simply  absurd !  She  couldn't  do 
it!  When  you  see  her,  you'll  understand." 

"I  daresay  I  shall!"  And  Harrington  smiled — 
"Don't  you  worry !  I'm  too  old  a  hand  to  get  myself 
or  anybody  else  into  trouble!  But  I'll  wager  you 
anything  that  your  simple  school-girl  is  the  author!" 


248  INNOCENT 

He  went  back  then  and  there  to  the  office  of  his  big 
newspaper  and  wrote  a  guarded  little  note  as  fol- 
lows:— 

"DEAK  Miss  ARMITAGE, 

I  wonder  if  you  remember  a  grumpy  old  fellow 
who  travelled  with  you  on  your  first  journey  to  Lon- 
don rather  more  than  a  year  ago?  You  never  told 
me  your  name,  but  I  kept  a  note  of  the  address  you 
gave  through  me  to  your  taxi-driver,  and  through 
that  address  I  have  just  by  chance  heard  that  you 
and  the  Miss  Armitage  who  corrected  the  proofs  of  a 
wonderful  book  recently  published  are  one  and  the 
same  person.  May  I  call  and  see  you? 
Yours  sincerely, 

JOHN  HARRINGTON." 

He  waited  impatiently  for  the  answer,  but  none 
came  for  several  days.  At  last  he  received  a  simple 
and  courteous  "put  off,"  thus  expressed: — 

"DEAR  MR.  HARRINGTON, 

I  remember  you  very  well — you  were  most  kind, 
and  I  am  grateful  for  your  thought  of  me.  But 
I  hope  you  will  not  think  me  rude  if  I  ask  you  not 
to  call.  I  am  living  as  a  paying  guest  with  an  old 
lady  whose  health  is  not  very  strong  and  who  does 
not  like  me  to  receive  visitors,  and  you  can  under- 
stand that  I  try  not  to  inconvenience  her  in  any 
way.  I  do  hope  you  are  well  and  successful. 

Yours  sincerely, 

ENA  ARMITAGE." 

He  folded  up  the  note  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"That  finishes  me  very  decisively!"  he  said,  with 
a  laugh  at  himself  for  his  own  temerity.  "Who  is  it 
says  a  woman  cannot  keep  a  secret?  She  can,  and 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    249 

will,  and  does! — when  it  suits  her  to  do  so!  Never 
mind,  Miss  Armitage!  I  shall  find  you  out  when 
you  least  expect  it — never  fear!" 

Meanwhile  Miss  Leigh's  little  house  in  Kensing- 
ton was  the  scene  of  mingled  confusion  and  triumph. 
The  "paying  guest" — the  little  unobtrusive  girl,  with 
all  her  wardrobe  in  a  satchel  and  her  legacy  of  four 
hundred  pounds  in  bank-notes  tucked  into  her 
bosom — had  achieved  a  success  beyond  her  wildest 
dreams,  and  now  had  only  to  declare  her  identity  to 
become  a  "celebrity."  Miss  Lavinia  had  been 
for  some  days  in  a  state  of  nervous  excitement, 
knowing  that  it  was  Innocent's  first  literary  effort 
which  had  created  such  a  sensation.  By  this  time 
she  had  learned  all  the  girl's  history — Innocent  had 
told  her  everything,  save  and  except  the  one  fact  of 
her  parentage, — and  this  she  held  back,  not  out  of 
shame  for  herself,  but  consideration  for  the  memory 
of  the  handsome  man  whose  portrait  stood  on  the 
silent  harpsichord.  For  she  in  her  turn  had  dis- 
covered Miss  Lavinia's  secret, — how  the  dear  lady's 
heart  had  been  devoted  to  Pierce  Armitage  all  her 
life,  and  how  when  she  knew  he  had  been  drawn 
away  from  her  and  captivated  by  another  woman 
her  happiness  had  been  struck  down  and  withered 
like  a  flowering  rose  in  a  hard  gale  of  wind.  For 
this  romance,  and  the  disillusion  she  had  suffered, 
Innocent  loved  her.  The  two  had  become  fast 
friends,  almost  like  devoted  mother  and  daughter. 
Miss  Leigh  was,  as  she  had  stated  in  her  "Morning 
Post"  advertisement,  well-connected,  and  she  did 
much  for  the  girl  who  had  by  chance  brought  a 
new  and  thrilling  interest  into  her  life — more  than 
Innocent  could  possibly  have  done  for  herself.  The 
history  of  the  child, — as  much  as  she  was  told  of  it, 
— who  had  been  left  so  casually  at  a  country  farm 
on  the  mere  chance  of  its  being  kept  and  taken 


250  INNOCENT 

care  of,  affected  her  profoundly,  and  when  Innocent 
confided  to  her  the  fact  that  she  had  never  been 
baptised,  the  gentle  old  lady  was  moved  to  tears. 
No  time  was  lost  in  lifting  this  spiritual  ban  from 
the  young  life  concerned,  and  the  sacred  rite  was 
performed  quietly  one  morning  in  the  church  which 
Miss  Leigh  had  attended  for  many  years,  Miss 
Leigh  having  herself  explained  beforehand  some  of 
the  circumstances  to  the  Vicar,  and  standing  as  god- 
mother to  the  newly-received  little  Christian.  And 
though  there  had  arisen  some  question  as  to  the 
name  by  which  she  should  be  baptised,  Miss  Leigh 
held  tenaciously  to  the  idea  that  she  should  retain 
the  name  her  "unknown"  father  had  given  her — 
"Innocent." 

"Suppose  he  should  not  be  dead,"  she  said,  "then 
if  he  were  to  meet  you  some  day,  that  name  might 
waken  his  memory  and  lead  him  to  identify  you. 
And  I  like  it — it  is  pretty  and  original — quite  Chris- 
tian, too, — there  were  several  Popes  named  Inno- 
cent." 

The  girl  smiled.  She  thought  of  Robin  Clifford, 
and  how  he  had  aired  his  knowledge  to  her  on  the 
same  subject. 

"But  it  is  a  man's  name,  isn't  it?"  she  asked. 

"Not  more  so  than  a  woman's,  surely!"  declared 
Miss  Leigh.  "You  can  always  call  yourself  'Ena' 
for  short  if  you  like — but  'Innocent'  is  the  prettier 
name." 

And  so  "Innocent"  it  was, — and  by  the  sprinkling 
of  water  and  the  blessing  of  the  Church  the  name 
was  finally  bestowed  and  sanctified.  Innocent  her- 
self was  peacefully  glad  of  her  newly-attained  spirit- 
ual dignity  and  called  Miss  Lavinia  her  "fairy  god- 
mother." 

"Do  you  mind?"  she  asked,  coaxingly.  "It  makes 
me  so  happy  to  feel  that  you  are  one  of  those  kind 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    251 

people  in  a  fairy-tale,  bringing  good  fortune  and 
blessing.    I'm  sure  you  are  like  that!" 

Miss  Lavinia  protested  against  the  sweet  flattery, 
but  all  the  same  she  was  pleased.  She  began  to 
take  the  girl  out  with  her  to  the  houses  of  various 
"great"  personages — friends  whom  she  knew  well 
and  who  made  an  intimate  little  social  circle  of  their 
own — "old-fashioned"  people  certainly,  but  happily 
free  from  the  sort  of  suppressed  rowdyism  which  dis- 
tinguishes the  "nouveaux  riches"  of  the  present  day, 
— people  who  adhered  rigidly  to  almost  obsolete 
notions  of  honour  and  dignity,  who  lived  simply  and 
well  within  their  means,  who  spoke  reverently  of 
things  religious  and  believed  in  the  old  adage — 
"Manners  makyth  the  man."  So  by  degrees,  Inno- 
cent found  herself  among  a  small  choice  "set"  chiefly 
made  up  of  the  fragments  of  the  real  "old"  aris- 
tocracy, to  which  Miss  Leigh  herself  belonged, — and, 
with  her  own  quick  intuition  and  inborn  natural 
grace,  she  soon  became  a  favourite  with  them  all. 
But  no  one  knew  the  secret  of  her  literary  aspira- 
tions save  Miss  Leigh,  and  when  her  book  was  pub- 
lished anonymously  and  the  reading  world  began 
to  talk  of  it  as  something  unusual  and  wonderful, 
she  was  more  terrified  than  pleased.  Its  success  was 
greater  than  she  had  ever  dreamed  of,  and  her  one 
idea  was  to  keep  up  the  mystery  of  its  authorship  as 
long  as  possible,  but  every  day  made  this  more  diffi- 
cult. And  when  John  Harrington  wrote  to  her,  she 
felt  that  disclosure  was  imminent.  She  had  always 
kept  the  visiting-card  he  had  given  her  when  they 
had  travelled  to  London  together,  and  she  knew  he 
belonged  to  the  staff  of  a  great  and  leading  news- 
paper,— he  was  a  man  not  likely  to  be  baffled  in  any 
sort  of  enquiry  he  might  choose  to  make.  She 
thought  about  this  as  she  sat  in  her  quiet  little  room, 
working  at  the  last  few  chapters  of  her  second  book 


252  INNOCENT 

i 

which  the  publishers  were  eagerly  waiting  for.  What 
a  magical  change  had  been  wrought  in  her  life  since 
she  left  Briar  Farm  more  than  a  year,  aye, — nearly 
eighteen  months  ago!  For  one  thing,  all  fears  of 
financial  difficulty  were  at  an  end.  Her  first  book 
had  brought  her  more  money  than  she  had  ever  had 
in  her  life,  and  the  publisher's  offer  for  her  second 
outweighed  her  most  ambitious  desires.  She  was 
independent — she  could  earn  sufficient,  and  more 
than  sufficient  to  keep  herself  in  positive  luxury  if 
she  chose, — but  for  this  she  had  no  taste.  Her  little 
rooms  in  Miss  Leigh's  house  satisfied  all  her  ideas  of 
rest  and  comfort,  and  she  stayed  on  with  the  kind 
old  lady  by  choice  and  affection,  helping  her  in  many 
ways,  and  submitting  to  her  guidance  in  every  little 
social  matter  with  the  charming  humility  of  a  docile 
and  obedient  spirit  all  too  rare  in  these  days  when 
youth  is  more  full  of  effrontery  than  modesty.  She 
had  managed  her  "literary"  business  so  far  well  and 
carefully,  representing  herself  as  the  private  secre- 
tary of  an  author  who  wished  to  remain  anonymous, 
and  who  had  gone  abroad,  entrusting  her  with  his 
manuscript  to  "place"  with  any  suitable  firm  that 
would  make  a  suitable  offer.  The  ruse  would  hardly 
have  succeeded  in  the  case  of  any  ordinary  piece  of 
work,  but  the  book  itself  was  of  too  exceptional  a 
quality  to  be  passed  over,  and  the  firm  to  which  it 
was  first  offered  recognised  this  and  accepted  it  with- 
out parley,  astute  enough  to  see  its  possibilities  and 
to  risk  its  chances  of  success.  And  now  she  realised 
that  her  little  plot  might  be  discovered  any  day, 
and  that  she  would  have  to  declare  herself  as  the 
writer  of  a  strange  and  brilliant  book  which  was  the 
talk  of  the  moment. 

"I  wonder  what  they  will  say  when  they  know  it 
at  Briar  Farm!"  she  thought,  with  a  smile  and  a 
half  sigh. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    253 

Briar  Farm  seemed  a  long  way  off  in  these  days. 
She  had  written  occasionally  both  to  Priscilla  and 
Robin  Clifford ;  giving  her  address  and  briefly  stating 
that  she  had  taken  the  name  of  Armitage,  feeling 
that  she  had  no  right  to  that  of  Jocelyn.  But  Pris- 
cilla could  not  write,  and  contented  herself  with 
sending  her  "dear  love  and  duty  and  do  come  back 
soon,"  through  Robin,  who  answered  for  both  in 
letters  that  were  carefully  cold  and  restrained.  Now 
that  he  knew  where  she  was  he  made  no  attempt  to 
visit  her, — he  was  too  grieved  and  disappointed  at 
her  continued  absence,  and  deeply  hurt  at  what  he 
considered  her  "quixotic"  conduct  in  adopting  a  dif- 
ferent name, — an  "alias"  as  he  called  it. 

"You  have  separated  yourself  from  your  old  home 
by  your  own  choice  in  more  ways  than  one,"  he 
wrote,  "and  I  see  I  have  no  right  to  criticise  your 
actions.  You  are  in  a  strange  place  and  you  have 
taken  a  strange  name, — I  cannot  feel  that  you  are 
Innocent, — the  Innocent  of  our  bygone  happy  years ! 
It  is  better  I  should  not  go  and  see  you — not  unless 
you  send  for  me,  when,  of  course,  I  will  come." 

She  was  both  glad  and  sorry  for  this, — she  would 
have  liked  to  see  him  again,  and  yet! — well! — she 
knew  instinctively  that  if  they  met,  it  would  only 
cause  him  fresh  unhappiness.  Her  new  life  had  be- 
stowed new  grace  on  her  personality — all  the  interior 
intellectual  phases  of  her  mind  had  developed  in 
her  a  beauty  of  face  and  form  which  was  rare,  subtle 
and  elusive,  and  though  she  was  not  conscious  of  it 
herself,  she  had  that  compelling  attraction  about 
her  which  few  can  resist, — a  fascination  far  greater 
than  mere  physical  perfection.  No  one  could  have 
called  her  actually  beautiful, — hardly  could  it  have 
been  said  she  was  even  "pretty" — but  in  her  slight 
figure  and  intelligent  face  with  its  large  blue-grey 
eyes  half  veiled  under  dreamy,  drooping  lids  and 


254  INNOCENT 

long  lashes,  there  was  a  magnetic  charm  which  was 
both  sweet  and  powerful.  Moreover,  she  dressed 
well, — in  quiet  taste,  with  a  careful  avoidance 
of  anything  foolish  or  eccentric  in  fashion,  and  wher- 
ever she  went  she  made  her  effect  as  a  graceful  young 
presence  expressive  of  repose  and  harmony.  She 
spoke  delightfully, — in  a  delicious  voice,  attuned  to 
the  most  melodious  inflections,  and  her  constant 
study  of  the  finer  literature  of  the  past  gave  her 
certain  ways  of  expressing  herself  in  a  manner  so  far 
removed  from  the  abrupt  slanginess  commonly  used 
to-day  by  young  people  of  both  sexes  that  she  was 
called  "quaint"  by  some  and  "weird"  by  others  of 
her  own  sex,  though  by  men  young  and  old  she  was 
declared  "charming."  Guarded  and  chaperoned  by 
good  old  Miss  Lavinia  Leigh,  she  had  no  cause  to  be 
otherwise  than  satisfied  with  her  apparently  reckless 
and  unguided  plunge  into  the  mighty  vortex  of  Lon- 
don,— some  beneficent  spirit  had  led  her  into  a  haven 
of  safety  and  brought  her  straight  to  the  goal  of 
her  ambition  without  difficulty. 

"Of  course  I  owe  it  all  to  Dad,"  she  thought.  "If 
it  had  not  been  for  the  four  hundred  pounds  he  left 
me  to  'buy  pretties'  with  I  could  not  have  done  any- 
thing. I  have  bought  my  'pretties'! — not  bridal 
ones — but  things  so  much  better!" 

As  the  memory  of  her  "Dad"  came  over  her, 
tears  sprang  to  her  eyes.  In  her  mind  she  saw  the 
smooth  green  pastures  round  Briar  Farm — the  beau- 
tiful old  gabled  house, — the  solemn  trees  waving 
their  branches  in  the  wind  over  the  tomb  of  the 
"Sieur  Amadis," — the  doves  wheeling  round  and 
round  in  the  clear  air,  and  her  own  "Cupid"  falling 
like  a  snowflake  from  the  roof  to  her  caressing  hand. 
All  the  old  life  of  country  sights  and  sounds  passed 
before  her  like  a  fair  mirage,  giving  place  to  dark 
days  of  sorrow,  disillusion  and  loss, — the  fleeting 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    255 

glimpse  of  her  self-confessed  "mother,"  Lady  Maude 
Blythe, — and  the  knowledge  she  had  so  unexpect- 
edly gained  as  to  the  actual  identity  of  her  father — 
he,  whose  portrait  was  in  the  very  house  to  which. 
she  had  come  through  no  more  romantic  means  than 
a  chance  advertisement  hi  the  "Morning  Post!"  And 
Miss  Lavinia — her  "fairy  godmother" — could  she 
have  found  a  better  friend,  even  in  any  elf  stepping 
out  of  a  magic  pumpkin? 

"If  she  ever  knows  the  truth — if  I  am  ever  able 
to  tell  her  that  I  am  his  daughter,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, "I  wonder  if  she  will  care  for  me  less  or  more? 
But  I  must  not  tell  her! — She  says  he  was  so  good 
and  noble!  It  would  break  her  heart  to  think  he 
had  done  anything  wrong — or  that  he  had  deserted 
his  child." 

And  so  she  held  her  peace  on  this  point,  though 
she  was  often  tempted  to  break  silence  whenever 
Miss  Leigh  reverted  to  the  story  of  her  being  left  in 
such  a  casual,  yet  romantic  way  at  Briar  Farm. 

"I  wonder  who  the  handsome  man  was,  my  dear?" 
she  would  query — "Perhaps  he'll  go  back  to  the  place 
and  enquire  for  you.  He  may  be  some  very  great 
personage!" 

And  Innocent  would  smile  and  shake  her  head. 

"I  fear  not,  my  godmother!"  she  would  reply. 
"You  must  not  have  any  fairy  dreams  about  me! 
I  was  just  a  deserted  baby — not  wanted  in  the  world 
— but  the  world  may  have  to  take  me  all  the  same!" 

And  her  eyes  would  flash,  and  her  sensitive  mouth 
would  quiver  as  the  vision  of  fame  like  a  mystical 
rainbow  circled  the  heaven  of  her  youthful  imagina- 
tion— while  Miss  Leigh  would  sigh,  and  listen  and 
wonder, — she,  whose  simple  hope  and  faith  had  been 
centred  in  a  love  which  had  proved  false  and  vain, — 
praying  that  the  girl  might  realise  her  ambition 
without  the  wreckage  and  disillusion  of  her  life. 


256  INNOCENT 

One  evening — an   evening  destined  to  mark  a 
turning-point  in  Innocent's  destiny — they  went  to- 
gether to  an  "At  Home"  held  at  a  beautiful  studio 
in  the  house  of  an  artist  deservedly  famous.    Miss 
Leigh  had  a  great  taste  for  pictures,  no  doubt  fos- 
tered since  the  early  days  of  her  romantic  attach- 
ment to  a  man  who  had  painted  them, — and  she 
knew  most  of  the  artists  whose  names  were  more  or 
less  celebrated  in  the  modern  world.    Her  host  on 
this  special  occasion  was  what  is  called  a  "fashion- 
able" portrait  painter, — from  the  Queen  downwards 
he  had  painted  the  "counterfeit  presentments"  of 
ladies  of  wealth  and  title,  flattering  them  as  deli- 
cately as  his  really  clever  brush  would  allow,  and 
thereby  securing  golden  opinions  as  well  as  golden 
guineas.     He  was  a  genial,  breezy  sort  of  man, — 
quite  without  vanity  or  any  sort  of  "art"  ostenta- 
tion, and  he  had  been  a  friend  of  Miss  Leigh's  for 
many  years.     Innocent  loved  going  to  his  studio 
whenever  her  "godmother"  would  take  her,  and  he, 
in  his  turn,  found  interest  and  amusement  in  talk- 
ing to  a  girl  who  showed  such  a  fresh,  simple  and 
unworldly  nature,  united  to  intelligence  and  percep- 
tion far  beyond  her  years.    On  the  particular  even- 
ing in  question  the  studio  was  full  of  notable  people, 
— not  uncomfortably  crowded,  but  sufficiently  so  as 
to  compose  a  brilliant  effect  of  colour  and  movement 
— beautiful  women  in  wonderful  attire  fluttered  to 
and  fro  like  gaily-plumaged  birds  among  the  con- 
ventionally dark-clothed  men  who  stood  about  in 
that  aimless  fashion  they  so  often  affect  when  dis- 
inclined to  talk  or  to  make  themselves  agreeable, — 
and  there  was  a  pleasantly  subdued  murmur  of 
voices, — cultured  voices,  well-attuned,  and  incapable 
of  breaking  into  the  sheep-like  snigger  or  asinine 
bray.     Innocent,   keeping   close  beside  her   "god- 
mother," watched  the  animated  scene  with  happy  in- 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     257 

terest,  unconscious  that  many  of  those  present 
watched  her  in  turn  with  a  good  deal  of  scarcely 
restrained  curiosity.  For,  somehow  or  other,  ru- 
mour had  whispered  a  flying  word  or  two  that  it  was 
possible  she — even  she — that  young,  childlike-look- 
ing creature — might  be,  and  probably  was  the  actual 
author  of  the  clever  book  everybody  was  talking 
about,  and  though  no  one  had  the  hardihood  to  ask 
her  point-blank  if  the  report  was  true,  people 
glanced  at  her  inquisitively  and  murmured  their 
"asides"  of  suggestion  or  incredulity,  finding  it  dif- 
ficult to  believe  that  a  woman  could  at  any  time  or 
by  any  means,  alone  and  unaided,  snatch  one  flower 
from  the  coronal  of  fame.  She  looked  very  fair  and 
sweet  and  non-literary,  clad  in  a  simple  white  gown 
made  of  some  softly  clinging  diaphanous  material, 
wholly  unadorned  save  by  a  small  posy  of  natural 
roses  at  her  bosom, — and  as  she  stood  a  little  apart 
from  the  throng,  several  artists  noticed  the  grace 
of  her  personality — one  especially,  a  rather  hand- 
some man  of  middle  age,  who  gazed  at  her  observ- 
antly and  critically  with  a  frank  openness  which, 
though  bold,  was  scarcely  rude.  She  caught  the 
straight  light  of  his  keen  blue  eyes — and  a  thrill 
ran  through  her  whole  being,  as  though  she  had  been 
suddenly  influenced  by  a  magnetic  current — then 
she  flushed  deeply  as  she  fancied  she  saw  him  smile. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  found  pleasure  in 
the  fact  that  a  man  had  looked  at  her  with  plainly 
evinced  admiration  in  his  fleeting  glance, — and  she 
watched  him  talking  to  several  people  who  all 
seemed  delighted  and  flattered  by  his  notice — then 
he  disappeared.  Later  on  in  the  evening  she  asked 
her  host  who  he  was.  The  famous  R.A.  considered 
for  a  moment. 

"Do  you  mean  a  man  with  rough  dark  hair  and  a 


258  INNOCENT 

youngish  face? — rather  good-looking  in  an  eccentric 
sort  of  way?" 

Innocent  nodded  eagerly. 

"Yes!    And  he  had  blue  eyes." 

"Had  he,  really!"  And  the  great  artist  smiled. 
"Well,  I'm  sure  he  would  be  flattered  at  your  close 
observation  of  him!  I  think  I  know  him, — that  is, 
I  know  him  as  much  as  he  will  let  anybody  know 
him — he  is  a  curious  fellow,  but  a  magnificent 
painter — a  real  genius !  He's  half  French  by  descent, 
and  his  name  is  Jocelyn, — Amadis  de  Jocelyn." 

For  a  moment  the  room  went  round  in  a  giddy 
whirl  of  colour  before  her  eyes, — she  could  not  credit 
her  own  hearing.  Amadis  de  Jocelyn! — the  name  of 
her  old  stone  Knight  of  France,  on  his  tomb  at  Briar 
Farm,  with  his  motto — "Mon  cceur  me  soutien!" 

"Amadis  de  Jocelyn!"  she  repeated,  falteringly 
.  .  .  "Are  you  sure?  ...  I  mean  ...  is  that  his 

name  really?  .  .  .  it's  so  unusual  ...  so  curious 
)) 

"Yes — it  is  curious" — agreed  her  host — "but  it's 
quite  a  good  old  French  name,  belonging  to  a  good 
old  French  family.  The  Jocelyns  bore  arms  for  the 
Due  d'Anjou  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth — and 
this  man  is  a  sort  of  last  descendant,  very  proud  of 
his  ancestry.  I'll  bring  him  along  and  introduce 
him  to  you  if  you'll  allow  me." 

Innocent  murmured  something — she  scarcely 
knew  what, — and  in  a  few  minutes  found  herself 
giving  the  conventional  bow  in  response  to  the  for- 
mal words — "Miss  Armitage,  Mr.  de  Jocelyn" — and 
looking  straight  up  at  the  blue  eyes  that  a  short 
while  since  had  flashed  an  almost  compelling  glance 
into  her  own.  A  strange  sense  of  familiarity  and 
recognition  moved  her;  something  of  the  expression 
of  her  "Dad"  was  in  the  face  of  this  other  Jocelyn 
of  whom  she  knew  nothing, — and  her  heart  beat  so 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    259 

quickly  that  she  could  scarcely  speak  in  answer  when 
he  addressed  her,  as  he  did  in  a  somewhat  abrupt 
manner. 

"Are  you  an  art  student?" 

She  smiled  a  little. 

"Oh  no!  I  am — nothing!  ...  I  love  pictures  of 
course " 

"There  is  no  'of  course'  in  it,"  he  said,  a  humorous 
curve  lifting  the  corners  of  his  moustache — "You're 
not  bound  to  love  pictures  at  all!  Most  people  hate 
them,  and  scarcely  anybody  understands  them!" 

She  listened,  charmed  by  the  mellow  and  deep 
vibration  of  his  voice. 

"Everybody  comes  to  see  our  friend  here,"  he 
continued,  with  a  slight  gesture  of  his  hand  towards 
their  host,  who  had  moved  away, — "because  he  is 
the  fashion.  If  he  were  not  the  fashion  he  might 
paint  like  Velasquez  or  Titian  and  no  one  would  care 
a  button!" 

He  seemed  entertained  by  his  own  talk,  and  she 
did  not  interrupt  him. 

"You  look  like  a  stranger  here,"  he  went  on,  in 
milder  accents — "a  sort  of  elf  who  has  lost  her  way 
out  of  fairyland!  Is  anyone  with  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  quickly — "Miss  Leigh " 

"Miss  Leigh?  Who  is  she?  Your  aunt  or  your 
chaperone?" 

She  was  more  at  her  ease  now,  and  laughed  at  his 
quick,  brusque  manner  of  speech. 

"Miss  Leigh  is  my  godmother,"  she  said — "I  call 
her  my  fairy  godmother  because  she  is  always  so 
good  and  kind.  There  she  is,  standing  by  that  big 
easel." 

He  looked  in  the  direction  Indicated. 

"Oh  yes! — I  see!  A  charming  old  lady!  I  love 
old  ladies  when  they  don't  pretend  to  be  young. 
That  white  hair  of  hers  is  very  picturesque !  So  she 


260  INNOCENT 

is  your  godmother! — and  she  takes  care  of  you! 
Well!  She  might  do  worse!" 

He  ruffled  his  thick  crop  of  hair  and  looked  at  her 
more  or  less  quizzically. 

"You  have  an  air  of  suppressed  enquiry,"  he  said 
— "There  is  something  on  your  mind !  You  want  to 
ask  me  a  question — what  is  it?" 

A  soft  colour  flew  over  her  cheeks — she  was  con- 
fused to  find  him  reading  her  thoughts. 

"It  is  really  nothing!"  she  answered,  quickly — 
"I  was  only  wondering  a  little  about  your  name — 
because  it  is  one  I  have  known  all  my  life." 

His  eyebrows  went  up  in  surprise. 

"Indeed?  This  is  very  interesting!  I  thought  I 
was  the  only  wearer  of  such  a  very  medieval  appel- 
lation! Is  there  another  so  endowed?" 

"There  was  another — long,  long  ago" — and,  un- 
consciously to  herself  her  delicate  features  softened 
into  a  dreamy  and  rapt  expression  as  she  spoke, — 
while  her  voice  fell  into  its  sweetest  and  most  per- 
suasive tone.  "He  was  a  noble  knight  of  France, 
and  he  came  over  to  England  with  the  Due  d'  An- 
jou  when  the  great  Elizabeth  was  Queen.  He  fell 
in  love  with  a  very  beautiful  Court  lady,  who  would 
not  care  for  him  at  all, — so,  as  he  was  unhappy 
and  broken-hearted,  he  went  away  from  London 
and  hid  himself  from  everybody  in  the  far  country. 
There  he  bought  an  old  manor-house  and  called  it 
Briar  Farm — and  he  married  a  farmer's  daughter 
and  settled  in  England  for  good — and  he  had  six 
sons  and  daughters.  And  when  he  died  he  was 
buried  on  his  own  land — and  his  effigy  is  on  his  tomb 
— it  was  sculptured  by  himself.  I  used  to  put  flow- 
ers on  it,  just  where  his  motto  was  carved — 'Mon 
cceur  me  soutien.'  For  I — I  was  brought  up  at  Briar 
Farm  .  .  .  and  I  was  quite  fond  of  the  Sieur  Ama- 
dis!" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    261 

She  looked  up  with  a  serious,  sweet  luminance  in 
her  eyes — and  he  was  suddenly  thrilled  by  her  glance, 
and  moved  by  a  desire  to  turn  her  romantic  idyll 
into  something  of  reality.  This  feeling  was  merely 
the  physical  one  of  an  amorously  minded  man, — he 
knew,  or  thought  he  knew,  women  well  enough  to 
hold  them  at  no  higher  estimate  than  that  of  sex- 
attraction, — yet,  with  all  the  cynicism  he  had  at- 
tained through  long  experience  of  the  world  and  its 
ways,  he  recognised  a  charm  in  this  fair  little  crea- 
ture that  was  strange  and  new  and  singularly  fas- 
cinating, while  the  exquisite  modulations  of  her 
voice  as  she  told  the  story  of  the  old  French  knight, 
so  simply  yet  so  eloquently,  gave  her  words  the 
tenderness  of  a  soft  song  well  sung. 

"A  pity  you  should  waste  fondness  on  a  man  of 
stone!"  he  said,  lightly,  bending  his  keen  steel-blue 
eyes  on  hers.  "But  what  you  tell  me  is  most  curi- 
ous, for  your  'Sieur  Amadis'  must  be  the  missing 
branch  of  my  own  ancestral  tree.  May  I  explain? — 
or  will  it  bore  you?" 

She  gave  him  a  swift,  eager  glance. 

"Bore  me?"  she  echoed— "How  could  it?  Oh,  do 
please  let  me  know  everything — quickly!" 

He  smiled  at  her  enthusiasm. 

"We'll  sit  down  here  out  of  the  crowd,"  he  said, — 
and,  taking  her  arm  gently,  he  guided  her  to  a  re- 
tired corner  of  the  studio  which  was  curtained  off 
to  make  a  cosy  and  softly  cushioned  recess.  "You 
have  told  me  half  a  romance!  Perhaps  I  can  supply 
the  other  half."  He  paused,  looking  at  her,  whimsi- 
cally pleased  to  see  the  warm  young  blood  flushing 
her  cheeks  as  he  spoke,  and  her  eyes  drooping  under 
his  penetrating  gaze.  "Long,  long  ago — as  you  put 
it — in  the  days  of  good  Queen  Bess,  there  lived  a 
certain  Hugo  de  Jocelin,  a  nobleman  of  France, 
famed  for  fierce  deeds  of  arms,  and  for  making  him- 


262  INNOCENT 

self  generally  disagreeable  to  his  neighbours  with 
whom  he  was  for  ever  at  cross-purposes.  This  con- 
tentious personage  had  two  sons, — Jeffrey  and  Ama- 
dis, — also  knights-at-arms,  inheriting  the  somewhat 
excitable  nature  of  their  father;  and  the  younger 
of  these,  Amadis,  whose  name  I  bear,  was  selected  by 
the  Due  d'Anjou  to  accompany  him  with  his  train 
of  nobles  and  gentles,  when  that  'petit  grenouille'  as 
he  called  himself,  went  to  England  to  seek  Queen 
Elizabeth's  hand  in  marriage.  The  Duke  failed  in 
his  ambitious  quest,  as  we  all  know,  and  many  of 
his  attendants  got  scattered  and  dispersed, — among 
them  Amadis,  who  was  entirely  lost  sight  of,  and 
never  returned  again  to  the  home  of  his  fathers.  He 
was  therefore  supposed  to  be  dead " 

"My  Amadis!"  murmured  Innocent,  her  eyes  shin- 
ing like  stars  as  she  listened. 

"Your  Amadis! — yes!"  And  his  voice  softened. 
"Of  course  he  must  have  been  your  Amadis  !< — 
your  'Knight  of  old  and  warrior  bold ! '  Well !  None 
of  his  own  people  ever  heard  of  him  again — and  in 
the  family  tree  he  is  marked  as  missing.  But  Jeffroy 
stayed  at  home  in  France, — and  in  due  course  in- 
herited his  father's  grim  old  castle  and  lands.  He 
married,  and  had  a  large  family, — much  larger  than 
the  six  olive-branches  allotted  to  your  friend  of 
Briar  Farm," — and  he  smiled.  "He,  Jeffroy,  is  my 
ancestor,  and  I  can  trace  myself  back  to  him  in  di- 
rect lineage,  so  you  see  I  have  quite  the  right  to  my 
curious  name!" 

She  clasped  and  unclasped  her  little  hands  ner- 
vously— she  was  shy  of  raising  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

"It  is  wonderful!"  she  murmured — "I  can  hardly 
believe  it  possible  that  I  should  meet  here  in  London 
a  real  Jocelyn! — one  of  the  family  of  the  Sieur  Ama- 
dis!" 

"Does  it  seem  strange?"    He  laughed.    "Oh  no! 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    263 

Nothing  is  strange  in  this  queer  little  world!  But 
I  don't  quite  know  what  the  exact  connection  is 
between  me  and  your  knight — it's  too  difficult  for 
me  to  grasp!  I  suppose  I'm  a  sort  of  great-great- 
great-grand-nephew!  However,  nothing  can  alter 
the  fact  that  I  am  also  an  Amadis  de  Jocelyn!" 

She  glanced  up  at  him  quickly. 

"You  are,  indeed ! "  she  said.  "It  is  you  who  ought 
to  be  the  master  of  Briar  Farm!" 

"Ought  I?"  He  was  amused  at  her  earnestness. 
"Why?" 

"Because  there  is  no  direct  heir  now  to  the  Sieur 
Amadis!"  she  answered,  almost  sadly.  "His  last  de- 
scendant is  dead.  His  name  was  Hugo — Hugo  Joce- 
lyn— and  he  was  a  farmer,  and  he  left  all  he  had 
to  his  nephew,  the  only  child  of  his  sister  who  died 
before  him.  The  nephew  is  very  good,  and  clever, 
too, — he  was  educated  at  Oxford, — but  he  is  not  an 
actually  lineal  descendant." 

He  laughed  again,  this  time  quite  heartily,  at  the 
serious  expression  of  her  face. 

"That's  very  terrible!"  he  said.  "I  don't  know 
when  I've  heard  anything  so  lamentable!  And  I'm 
afraid  I  can't  put  matters  right!  I  should  never  do 
for  a  farmer — I'm  a  painter.  I  had  better  go  down 
and  see  this  famous  old  place,  and  the  tomb  of  my 
ever  so  great-great-grand-uncle!  I  could  make  a 
picture  of  it — I  ought  to  do  that,  as  it  belonged  to 
the  family  of  my  ancestors.  Will  you  take  me?" 

She  gave  him  a  little  fleeting,  reluctant  smile. 

"You  are  making  fun  of  it  all,"  she  said.  "That 
is  not  wise  of  you!  You  should  not  laugh  at  grave 
and  noble  things." 

He  was  charmed  with  her  quaintness. 

"Was  he  grave  and  noble? — Amadis,  I  mean?" 
he  asked,  his  blue  eyes  sparkling  with  a  kind  of 
mirthful  ardour.  "You  are  sure?  Well,  all  honour 


264  INNOCENT 

to  him !  And  to  you — for  believing  in  him !  I  hope 
you'll  consider  me  kindly  for  his  sake!  Will  you?" 

A  quick  blush  suffused  her  cheeks. 

"Of  course! — I  must  do  so!"  she  answered,  sim- 
ply. "I  owe  him  so  much "  then,  fearful  of  be-* 

traying  her  secret  of  literary  authorship,  she  hesi- 
tated— "I  mean — he  taught  me  all  I  know.  I  studied 
all  his  old  books.  .  .  ." 

Just  then  their  cheery  host  came  up. 

"Well!  Have  you  made  friends?  Ah! — I  see  you 
have!  Mutual  intelligence,  mutual  comprehension! 
Jocelyn,  will  you  bring  Miss  Innocent  in  to  supper? 
— I  leave  her  in  your  charge." 

"Miss  Innocent?"  repeated  Jocelyn,  doubtful  as 
to  whether  this  was  said  by  way  of  a  joke  or  not. 

"Yes — some  people  call  her  Ena — but  her  real 
name  is  Innocent.  Isn't  it,  little  lady?" 

She  smiled  and  coloured.  Jocelyn  looked  at  her 
with  a  curious  mtentness. 

"Really?    Your  name  is  Innocent?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  him — "I'm  afraid  it's  a  very 
unusual  name " 

"It  is  indeed ! "  he  said  with  emphasis.  "Innocent 
by  name  and  by  nature!  Will  you  come?" 

She  rose  at  once,  and  they  moved  away  together. 


CHAPTER   II 

CHANCE  and  coincidence  play  curious  pranks  with 
human  affairs,  and  one  of  the  most  obvious  facts  of 
daily  experience  is  that  the  merest  trifle,  occurring  in 
the  most  haphazard  way,  will  often  suffice  to  change 
the  whole  intention  and  career  of  a  life  for  good  or 
for  evil.  It  is  as  though  a  musician  in  the  composi- 
tion of  a  symphony  should  suddenly  bethink  himself 
of  a  new  and  strange  melody,  and,  pleasing  his  fancy 
with  the  innovation,  should  wilfully  introduce  it  at 
the  last  moment,  thereby  creating  more  or  less  of  a 
surprise  for  the  audience.  Something  of  this  kind 
happened  to  Innocent  after  her  meeting  with  the 
painter  who  bore  the  name  of  her  long  idealised 
knight  of  France,  Amadis  de  Jocelin.  She  soon 
learned  that  he  was  a  somewhat  famous  personage, 
— famous  for  his  genius,  his  scorn  of  accepted  rules, 
and  his  contempt  for  all  "puffery,"  push  and  patron- 
age, as  well  as  for  his  brusquerie  in  society  and  care- 
lessness of  conventions.  She  also  heard  that  his 
works  had  been  rejected  twice  by  the  Royal  Acad- 
emy Council,  a  reason  he  deemed  all-sufficient  for 
never  appealing  to  that  exclusive  school  of  favourit- 
ism again, — while  everything  he  chose  to  send  was 
eagerly  accepted  by  the  French  Salon,  and  pur- 
chased as  soon  as  exhibited.  His  name  had  begun 
to  stand  very  high — and  his  original  character  and 
personality  made  him  somewhat  of  a  curiosity 
among  men — one  more  feared  than  favoured.  He 
took  a  certain  pleasure  in  analysing  his  own  dispo- 
sition for  the  benefit  of  any  of  his  acquaintances 

265 


266  INNOCENT 

who  chose  to  listen, — and  the  harsh  judgment  he 
passed  on  himself  was  not  altogether  without  jus- 
tice or  truth. 

"I  am  an  essentially  selfish  man,"  he  would  say — 
"I  have  met  selfishness  everywhere  among  my  fel- 
low men  and  women,  and  have  imbibed  it  as  a  sponge 
imbibes  water.  I've  had  a  fairly  hard  time,  and 
I've  experienced  the  rough  side  of  human  nature, 
getting  more  kicks  than  halfpence.  Now  that  the 
kicks  have  ceased  I'm  in  no  mood  for  soft  soap.  I 
know  the  humbug  of  so-called  'friendship' — the 
rarity  of  sincerity — and  as  for  love! — there's  no 
such  thing  permanently  in  man,  woman  or  child. 
What  is  called  'love'  is  merely  a  comfortable  con- 
sciousness that  one  particular  person  is  agreeable  and 
useful  to  you  for  a  time — but  it's  only  for  a  time — 
and  marriage  which  seeks  to  bind  two  people  to- 
gether till  death  is  the  heaviest  curse  ever  imposed 
on  manhood  or  womanhood!  Devotion  and  self- 
sacrifice  are  merest  folly — the  people  you  sacrifice 
yourself  for  are  never  worth  it,  and  devotion  is  gen- 
erally, if  not  always,  misplaced.  The  only  thing  to 
do  in  this  life  is  to  look  after  yourself, — serve  your- 
self— please  yourself!  No  one  will  do  anything  for 
you  unless  they  can  get  something  out  of  it  for 
their  own  advantage, — you're  bound  to  follow  the 
general  example!" 

Notwithstanding  this  candid  confession  of  cynical 
egotism,  the  man  had  greatness  in  him,  and  those 
who  knew  his  works  readily  recognised  his  power. 
The  impression  he  had  made  on  Innocent's  guileless 
and  romantic  nature  was  beyond  analysis, — she  did 
not  try  to  understand  it  herself.  His  name  and  the 
connection  he  had  with  the  old  French  knight  of  her 
childhood's  dreams  and  fancies  had  moved  and 
roused  her  to  a  new  interest  in  life — and  just  as  she 
had  hitherto  been  unwilling  to  betray  the  secret  of 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     26T 

her  literary  authorship,  she  was  now  eager  to  have 
it  declared — for  one  reason  only, — that  he  might  per- 
haps think  well  of  her.  Whereby  it  will  be  seen  that 
the  poor  child,  endowed  with  a  singular  genius  as 
she  was,  knew  nothing  of  men  and  their  never- failing 
contempt  for  the  achievements  of  gifted  women. 
Delicate  of  taste  and  sensitive  hi  temperament  she 
was  the  very  last  sort  of  creature  to  realise  the  ugly 
truth  that  men,  taken  en  masse,  consider  women  in 
one  only  way — that  of  sex, — as  the  lower  half  of 
man,  necessary  to  man's  continuance,  but  always  the 
mere  vessel  of  his  pleasure.  To  her,  Amadis  de  Joce- 
lyn  was  the  wonderful  realisation  of  an  ideal, — but 
she  was  very  silent  concerning  him, — reserved  and 
almost  cold.  This  rather  surprised  good  Miss  La- 
vinia  Leigh,  whose  romantic  tendencies  had  been 
greatly  stirred  by  the  story  of  the  knight  of  Briar 
Farm  and  the  discovery  of  a  descendant  of  the  same 
family  in  one  of  the  most  admired  artists  of  the  day. 
They  visited  Jocelyn's  studio  together — a  vast,  bare 
place,  wholly  unadorned  by  the  tawdry  parapherna- 
lia which  is  sometimes  affected  by  third-rate  men  to 
create  an  "art"  impression  on  the  minds  of  the  un- 
instructed — and  they  had  stood  lost  in  wonder  and 
admiration  before  a  great  picture  he  was  painting 
on  commission,  entitled  "Wild  Weather."  It  was 
what  is  called  by  dealers  an  "important  work,"  and 
represented  night  closing  in  over  a  sea  lashed  into 
fury  by  the  sweep  of  a  stormy  wind.  So  faithfully 
was  the  scene  of  terror  and  elemental  confusion  ren- 
dered that  it  was  like  nature  itself,  and  the  imagina- 
tive eye  almost  looked  for  the  rising  waves  to  tum- 
ble liquidly  from  the  painted  canvas  and  break  on 
the  floor  in  stretches  of  creamy  foam.  Gentle  Miss 
Leigh  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  beating  of  the  heart 
as  she  looked  at  this  masterpiece  of  form  and  colour, 
— it  reminded  her  of  the  work  of  Pierce  Armitage. 


268  INNOCENT 

She  ventured  to  say  so,  with  a  little  hesitation,  and 
Jocelyn  caught  at  the  name. 

"Armitage? — Yes — he  was  beginning  to  be  rather 
famous  some  five-and-twenty  years  ago — I  wonder 
what  became  of  him?  He  promised  great  things.  By 
the  way" — and  he  turned  to  Innocent — "Your  name 
is  Armitage!  Any  relation  to  him?" 

The  colour  rushed  to  her  cheeks  and  fled  again, 
leaving  her  very  pale. 

"No,"  she  answered. 

He  looked  at  her  inquisitively. 

"Well,  Armitage  is  not  as  outlandish  a  name  as 
Amadis  de  Jocelyn,"  he  said — "You  will  hardly  find 
two  of  mel — and  I  expect  I  shall  hardly  find  two  of 
you\"  and  he  smiled — "especially  if  what  I  have 
heard  is  anything  more  than  rumour!" 

Her  eyes  filled  with  an  eager  light. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

He  laughed, — yet  in  himself  was  conscious  of  a 
certain  embarrassment. 

"Well! — that  a  certain  'Innocent'  young  lady  is 
a  great  author!"  he  said — "There!  You  have  it! 
I'm  loth  to  believe  it,  and  hope  the  report  isn't  true, 
for  I'm  afraid  of  clever  women !  Indeed  I  avoid  them 
whenever  I  can!" 

A  sudden  sense  of  hopelessness  and  loss  fell  over 
her  like  a  cloud — her  lips  quivered. 

"Why  should  you  do  so?"  she  asked — "We  do  not 
avoid  clever  men!" 

He  smiled. 

"Ah!    That  is  different!" 

She  was  silent.  Miss  Leigh  looked  a  little  dis- 
tressed. 

He  went  on  lightly. 

"My  dear  Miss  Armitage,  don't  be  angry  with 
me!"  he  said — "You  are  so  delightfully  ignorant  of 
the  ways  qf  our  sex,  and  I  for  one  heartily  wish  you 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    269 

might  always  remain  so!  But  we  men  are  pro- 
verbially selfish — and  we  like  to  consider  cleverness, 
or  'genius'  if  you  will,  as  our  own  exclusive  property. 
We  hate  the  feminine  poacher  on  our  particular  pre- 
serves! We  consider  that  women  were  made  to 
charm  and  to  amuse  us — not  to  equal  us.  Do  you 
see?  When  a  woman  is  clever — perhaps  cleverer 
than  we  are — she  ceases  to  be  amusing — and  we  must 
be  amused!  We  cannot  have  our  fun  spoiled  by 
the  blue-stocking  element — though  you — you  do  not 
look  in  the  least  'blue'!" 

She  turned  from  him  in  a  mute  vexation.  She 
thought  his  talk  trifling  and  unmanly.  Miss  Leigh 
came  to  the  rescue. 

"No — Innocent  is  certainly  not  'blue/  "  she  said, 
sweetly — "If  by  that  term  you  mean  'advanced'  or 
in  any  way  unwomanly.  But  she  has  been  singu- 
larly gifted  by  nature — yes,  dear  child,  I  must  be  al- 
lowed to  speak!" — this,  as  Innocent  made  an  appeal- 
ing gesture, — "and  if  people  say  she  is  the  author 
of  the  book  that  is  just  now  being  so  much  talked 
of,  they  are  only  saying  the  truth.  The  secret  can- 
not be  kept  much  longer." 

He  heard — then  went  quickly  up  to  the  girl  where 
she  stood  in  a  somewhat  dejected  attitude  near  his 
easel. 

"Then  it  is  true!"  he  said — "I  heard  it  yesterday 
from  an  old  journalist  friend  of  mine,  John  Harring- 
ton— but  I  couldn't  quite  believe  it.  Let  me  con- 
gratulate you  on  your  brilliant  success " 

"You  do  not  care!"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"Oh,  do  I  not?"  He  was  amused,  and  taking  her 
hand  kissed  it  lightly.  "If  all  literary  women  were 
like  you " 

He  left  the  sentence  unfinished,  but  his  eyes  con- 
veyed a  wordless  language  which  made  her  heart 
beat  foolishly  and  her  nerves  thrill.  She  forgot  the 


270  INNOCENT 

easy  mockery  which  had  distinguished  his  manner 
since  when  speaking  of  the  "blue-stocking  element" 
— and  once  more  "Amadis  de  Jocelyn"  sat  firmly  on 
her  throne  of  the  ideal! 

That  very  afternoon,  on  her  return  from  Jocelyn's 
studio  to  Miss  Leigh's  little  house  in  Kensington 
which  she  now  called  her  "home" — she  found  a  re- 
ply-paid telegram  from  her  publishers,  running 
thus: 

"Eminent  journalist  John  Harrington  reviews 
book  favourably  in  evening  paper  suggesting  that 
you  are  the  actual  author.  May  we  deny  or  con- 
firm?" 

She  thought  for  some  minutes  before  deciding — 
and  went  to  Miss  Leigh  with  the  telegram  in  her 
hand. 

"Godmother  mine!"  she  said,  kneeling  down  be- 
side her — "Tell  me,  what  shall  I  do?  Is  it  any  use 
continuing  to  wear  the  veil  of  mystery?  Shall  I 
take  up  my  burden  and  bear  it  like  a  man?" 

Miss  Lavinia  smiled,  and  drew  the  girl's  fair  head 
to  her  bosom. 

"Poor  little  one!"  she  said,  tenderly — "I  know 
just  what  you  feel  about  it!  You  would  rather  re- 
main quietly  in  your  own  dreamland  than  face  the 
criticism  of  the  world,  or  be  pointed  out  as  a  'cele- 
brity'— yes,  I  quite  understand!  But  I  think  you 
must,  in  justice  to  yourself  and  others,  'take  up  the 
burden' — as  you  put  it — yes,  child !  You  must  wear 
your  laurels,  though  for  you  I  should  prefer  the 
rose!" 

Innocent  shivered,  as  with  sudden  cold. 

"A  rose  has  thorns!"  she  said,  as  she  got  up  from 
her  kneeling  attitude  and  moved  away — "It's  beau- 
tiful to  look  at — but  it  soon  fades!" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    271 

She  sent  off  her  reply  wire  to  the  publishers  with- 
out further  delay. 

"Statement  quite  true.  You  can  confirm  it  pub- 
licly." 

And  so  the  news  was  soon  all  over  London,  and  for 
that  matter  all  over  the  world.  From  one  end  of 
the  globe  to  the  other  the  fact  was  made  known  that 
a  girl  in  her  twentieth  year  had  produced  a  literary 
masterpiece,  admirable  both  in  design  and  execution, 
worthy  to  rank  with  the  highest  work  of  the  most 
brilliant  and  renowned  authors.  She  was  speedily 
overwhelmed  by  letters  of  admiration,  and  invita- 
tions from  every  possible  quarter  where  "lion-hunt- 
ing" is  practised  as  a  stimulant  to  jaded  and  over- 
wrought society,  but  amid  all  the  attractions  and 
gaieties  offered  to  her  she  held  fast  by  her  sheet- 
anchor  of  safety,  Miss  Leigh,  who  redoubled  her  lov- 
ing care  and  vigilance,  keeping  her  as  much  as  she 
could  in  the  harbour  of  that  small  and  exclusive  "set" 
of  well-bred  and  finely-educated  people  for  whom 
noise  and  fuss  and  show  meant  all  that  was  worst 
in  taste  and  manners.  And  remaining  more  or  less 
in  seclusion,  despite  the  growing  hubbub  around  her 
name,  she  finished  her  second  book,  and  took  it  her- 
self to  the  great  publishing  house  which  was  rapidly 
coining  good  hard  cash  out  of  the  delicate  dream  of 
her  woman's  brain.  The  head  of  the  firm  received 
her  with  eager  and  respectful  cordiality. 

"You  kept  your  secret  very  well!"  he  said — "I 
assure  you  I  had  no  idea  you  could  be  the  author 
of  such  a  book! — you  are  so  young " 

She  smiled,  a  little  sadly. 

"One  may  be  young  in  years  and  old  in  thought," 
she  answered — "I  passed  all  my  childhood  in  read- 
ing and  studying — I  had  no  playmates  and  no  games 


272  INNOCENT 

— and  I  was  nearly  always  alone.  I  had  only  old 
books  to  read — mostly  of  the  sixteenth  century — I 
suppose  I  formed  a  'style'  unconsciously  on  these." 

"It  is  a  very  beautiful  and  expressive  style,"  said 
the  publisher — "I  told  Mr.  Harrington,  when  he  first 
suggested  that  you  might  be  the  author,  that  it  was 
altogether  too  scholarly  for  a  girl." 

She  gave  a  slight  deprecatory  gesture. 

"Pray  do  not  let  us  discuss  it,"  she  said — "I  am 
not  at  all  pleased  to  be  known  as  the  author." 

"No?"  And  he  looked  surprised — "Surely  you 
must  be  happy  to  become  so  suddenly  famous?'7 

"Are  famous  persons  happy?"  she  asked — "I  don't 
think  they  are!  To  be  stared  at  and  whispered 
about  and  criticised — thatfs  not  happiness!  And 
men  never  like  you!" 

The  publisher  laughed. 

"You  can  do  without  their  liking,  Miss  Armitage," 
he  said — "You've  beaten  all  the  literary  fellows  on 
their  own  ground !  You  ought  to  be  satisfied.  We 
are  very  proud!" 

"Thank  you!"  she  said,  simply,  as  she  rose  to  go 
— "I  am  grateful  for  your  good  opinion." 

When  she  had  left  him,  the  publisher  eagerly 
turned  over  the  pages  of  her  new  manuscript.  At  a 
glance  he  saw  that  there  was  no  "falling-off" — he 
recognised  the  same  lucidity  of  expression,  the  same 
point  and  delicacy  of  phraseology  which  had  dis- 
tinguished her  first  effort,  and  the  wonderful  charm 
with  which  a  thought  was  pressed  firmly  yet  ten- 
derly home  to  its  mark. 

"It  will  be  a  greater  triumph  for  her  and  for  us 
than  the  previous  book!"  he  said — "She's  a  won- 
der!— and  the  most  wonderful  thing  about  her  is 
that  she  has  no  conceit,  and  is  unconscious  of  her 
own  power!" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     273 

Two  or  three  days  after  the  announcement  of  her 
authorship,  came  a  letter  from  Robin  Clifford. 

"DEAR  INNOCENT,"  it  ran,  "I  see  that  your  name, 
or  rather  the  name  you  have  taken  for  yourself,  is 
made  famous  as  that  of  the  author  of  a  book  which 
is  creating  a  great  sensation — and  I  venture  to  write 
a  word  of  congratulation,  hoping  it  may  be  accept- 
able to  you  from  your  playmate  and  friend  of  by- 
gone days.  I  can  hardly  believe  that  the  dear  little 
'Innocent'  of  Briar  Farm  has  become  such  a  cele- 
brated and  much-talked-of  personage,  for  after  all  it 
is  not  yet  two  years  since  you  left  us.  I  have  told 
Priscilla,  and  she  sends  her  love  and  duty,  and  hopes 
God  will  allow  her  to  see  you  once  again  before  she 
dies.  The  work  of  the  farm  goes  on  as  usual,  and 
everything  prospers — all  is  as  Uncle  Hugo  would 
have  wished — all  except  one  thing  which  I  know  will 
never  be !  But  you  must  not  think  I  grumble  at  my 
fate.  I  might  feel  lonely  if  I  had  not  plenty  of  work 
to  do  and  people  dependent  on  me — but  under  such 
circumstances  I  manage  to  live  a  life  that  is  at  least 
useful  to  others  and  I  want  for  nothing.  In  the 
evenings  when  the  darkness  closes  in,  and  we  light 
the  tall  candles  in  the  old  pewter  sconces,  I  often 
wish  I  could  see  a  little  fair  head  shining  like  a 
cameo  against  the  dark  oak  panelling — a  vision  of 
grace  and  hope  and  comfort! — but  as  this  cannot  be, 
I  read  old  books — even  some  of  those  belonging  to 
your  favourite  French  Knight  Amadis! — and  try  to 
add  to  the  little  learning  I  gained  at  Oxford.  I  am 
sending  for  your  book! — when  it  comes  I  shall  read 
every  word  of  it  with  an  interest  too  deep  to  Be  ex- 
pressed to  you  in  my  poor  language.  'Cupid'  is 
well — he  flies  to  my  hand,  surprised,  I  think,  to  find 
it  of  so  rough  a  texture  as  compared  with  the  little 


274  INNOCENT 

rose-velvet  palm  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  Will 
you  ever  come  to  Briar  Farm  again?    God  bless  you! 

ROBIN." 

She  shed  some  tears  over  this  letter — then,  moved 
by  a  sudden  impulse,  sat  down  and  answered  it  at 
once,  giving  a  full  account  of  her  meeting  and  ac- 
quaintance with  another  Amadis  de  Jocelyn — "the 
real  last  descendant,"  she  wrote,  "of  the  real  old  fam- 
ily of  the  very  Amadis  of  Briar  Farm!"  She  de- 
scribed his  appearance  and  manners, — descanted  on 
his  genius  as  a  painter,  and  all  unconsciously  poured 
out  her  ardent,  enthusiastic  soul  on  this  wonderful 
discovery  of  the  Real  in  the  Ideal.  She  said  nothing 
of  her  own  work  or  success,  save  that  she  was  glad  to 
be  able  to  earn  her  living.  And  when  Robin  read 
the  simple  outflow  of  her  thoughts  his  heart  grew 
cold  within  him.  He,  with  the  keen  instinct  of  a 
lover,  guessed  at  once  all  that  might  happen, — saw 
the  hidden  fire  smouldering,  and  became  conscious 
of  an  inexplicable  dread,  as  though  a  note  of  alarm 
had  sounded  mystically  in  his  brain.  What  would 
happen  to  Innocent,  if  she,  with  her  romantic,  old- 
world  fancies,  should  allow  a  possible  traitor  to  in- 
trude within  the  crystal-pure  sphere  where  her  sweet 
soul  dwelt  unsullied  and  serene?  He  told  Priscilla 
the  strange  story — and  she  in  her  shrewd,  motherly 
way  felt  something  of  the  same  fear. 

"Eh,  the  poor  lamb!"  she  sighed— "That  old 
French  knight  was  ever  a  fly  in  her  brain  and  a 
stumbling-block  in  the  way  of  us  all! — and  now  to 
come  across  a  man  o'  the  same  name  an'  family, 
turning  up  all  unexpected  like, — why,  it's  like  a 
ghost's  sudden  risin'  from  the  tomb !  An'  what  does 
it  mean,  Mister  Robin?  Are  you  the  master  o'  Briar 
Farm  now? — or  is  he  the  rightful  one?" 

Clifford  laughed,  a  trifle  bitterly. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     275 

"I  am  the  master,"  he  said,  "according  to  my 
uncle's  will.  This  man  is  a  painter — famous  and 
admired, — he'll  scarcely  go  in  for  farming!  If  he 
did — if  he'd  buy  the  farm  from  me — I  should  be  glad 
enough  to  sell  it  and  leave  the  country." 

"Mister  Robin!"  cried  Priscilla,  reproachfully. 

He  patted  her  hand  gently. 

"Not  yet — not  yet  anyhow,  Priscilla!"  he  said — 
"I  may  be  yet  of  some  use — to  Innocent."  He 
paused,  then  added,  slowly — "I  think  we  shall  hear 
more  of  this  second  Amadis  de  Jocelyn!" 

But  months  went  on,  and  he  heard  nothing,  save 
of  Innocent's  growing  fame  which,  by  leaps  and 
bounds,  was  spreading  abroad  like  fire  blown  into 
brightness  by  the  wind.  He  got  her  first  book  and 
read  it  with  astonishment  and  admiration,  utterly 
confounded  by  its  brilliancy  and  power.  When  her 
second  work  appeared  with  her  adopted  name  ap- 
pended to  it  as  the  author,  all  the  reading  world 
"rushed"  at  it,  and  equally  "rushed"  at  her,  lifting 
her,  as  it  were,  on  their  shoulders  and  bearing  her 
aloft,  against  her  own  desire,  above  the  seething  tide 
of  fashion  and  frivolity  as  though  she  were  a  queen 
of  many  kingdoms,  crowned  with  victory.  And  again 
the  old  journalist,  John  Harrington,  sought  an  au- 
dience of  her,  and  this  time  was  not  refused.  She, 
received  him  in  Miss  Leigh's  little  drawing-room, 
holding  out  both  her  hands  to  him  in  cordial  wel- 
come, with  a  smile  frank  and  sincere  enough  to  show 
him  at  a  glance  that  her  "celebrity"  had  left  her  un- 
scathed. She  was  still  the  same  simple  child-like 
soul,  wearing  the  mystical  halo  of  spiritual  dreams 
rather  than  the  brazen  baldric  of  material  prosper- 
ity— and  he,  bitterly  seasoned  in  the  hardest  ways 
of  humanity,  felt  a  thrill  of  compassion  as  he  looked 
at  her,  wondering  how  her  frail  argosy,  freighted  with 
fine  thought  and  rich  imagination,  would  weather  a 


276  INNOCENT 

storm  should  storms  arise.  He  sat  talking  for  a  long 
time  with  her  and  Miss  Leigh — reminding  her  pleas- 
antly of  their  journey  up  to  London  together, — • 
while  she,  in  her  turn,  amused  and  astonished  him 
by  avowing  the  fact  that  it  was  his  loan  of  the 
"Morning  Post"  that  had  led  her,  through  an  adver- 
tisement, to  the  house  where  she  was  now  living. 

"So  I've  had  something  of  a  hand  in  it  all!"  he 
said,  cheerily — "I'm  glad  of  that!  It  was  chance  or 
luck,  or  whatever  you  call  it! — but  I  never  thought 
that  the  little  girl  with  the  frightened  eyes,  carry- 
ing a  satchel  for  all  her  luggage,  was  a  future  great 
author,  to  whom  I,  as  a  poor  old  journalist,  would 
have  to  bow!"  He  laughed  kindly  as  he  spoke-— 
"And  you  are  still  a  little  girl! — or  you  look  one! 
I  feel  disposed  to  play  literary  grandfather  to  you! 
But  you  want  nobody's  help — you  have  made  your- 
self!" 

"She  has,  indeed!"  said  Miss  Leigh,  with  pride 
sparkling  in  her  tender  eyes — "When  she  came  here, 
and  suddenly  decided  to  stay  with  me,  I  had  no  idea 
of  her  plans,  or  what  she  was  studying.  She  used 
to  shut  herself  up  all  the  morning  and  write — she 
told  me  she  was  finishing  off  some  work — in  fact  it 
was  her  first  book, — a  manuscript  she  brought  with 
her  from  the  country  in  that  famous  satchel!  I 
knew  nothing  at  all  about  it  till  she  confided  to  me 
one  day  that  she  had  written  a  book,  and  that  it 
had  been  accepted  by  a  publisher.  I  was  amazed!" 

"And  the  result  must  have  amazed  you  still  more," 
said  Harrington, — "but  I'm  a  very  astute  person ! — 
and  I  guessed  at  once,  when  I  was  told  the  address 
of  the  'private  secretary  of  the  author/  that  the  sec- 
retary was  the  author  herself!" 

Innocent  blushed. 

"Perhaps  it  was  wrong  to  say  what  was  not  true," 
she  said,  "but  really  I  was  and  am  the  secretary  of 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    277 

the  author! — I  write  all  the  manuscript  with  my  own 
hand!" 

They  laughed  at  this,  and  then  Harrington  went 
on  to  say — 

"I  believe  you  know  the  painter  Amadis  Jocelyn, 
don't  you?  Yes?  Well,  I  was  with  him  the  other 
day,  and  I  said  you  were  the  author  of  the  wonder- 
ful book.  He  told  me  I  was  talking  nonsense — that 
you  couldn't  be, — he  had  met  you  at  an  artist's  even- 
ing party  and  that  you  had  told  him  a  story  about 
some  ancestor  of  his  own  family.  'She's  a  nice  little 
thing  with  baby  eyes,'  he  said,  'but  she  couldn't  write 
a  clever  book !  She  may  have  got  some  man  to  write 
it  for  her!" 

Innocent  gave  a  little  cry  of  pain. 

"Oh!— did  he  say  that?" 

"Of  course  he  did !  All  men  say  that  sort  of  thing! 
They  can't  bear  a  woman  to  do  more  than  marry  and 
have  children.  Simple  girl  with  the  satchel,  don't 
you  know  that?  You  mustn't  mind  it — it's  their 
way.  Of  course  I  rounded  on  Jocelyn  and  told  him 
he  was  a  fool,  with  a  swelled  head  on  the  subject  of 
his  own  sex — he  is  a  fool  hi  many  ways, — he's  a  great 
painter,  but  he  might  be  much  greater  if  he'd  get  up 
early  in  the  morning  and  stick  to  his  work.  He 
ought  to  have  been  in  the  front  rank  long  ago." 

"But  surely  he  is  in  the  front  rank?"  queried  Miss 
Leigh,  mildly — "He  is  a  wonderful  artist!" 

"Wonderful — yes! — with  a  lot  of  wonderful  things 
in  him  which  haven't  come  out!"  declared  Harring- 
ton, "and  which  never  will  come  out,  I  fear!  He 
turns  night  into  day  too  often.  Oh,  he's  clever! — 
I  grant  you  all  that — but  he  hasn't  a  resolute  will  or 
a  great  mind,  like  Watts  or  Burne-Jones  or  any  of 
the  fellows  who  served  their  art  nobly — he's  a  sel- 
fish sort  of  chap!" 

Innocent  heard,  and  longed  to  utter  a  protest — 


278  INNOCENT 

she  wanted  to  say — "No,  no! — you  wrong  him!  He 
is  good  and  noble — he  must  be! — he  is  Amadis  de 
Jocelyn!" 

But  she  repressed  her  thought  and  sat  very  quiet, 
— then,  when  Harrington  paused,  she  told  him  in  a 
sweet,  even  voice  the  story  of  the  "Knight  of  France" 
who  founded  Briar  Farm.  He  was  enthralled — not 
so  much  by  the  tale  as  by  her  way  of  telling  it. 

"And  so  Jocelyn  the  painter  is  the  lineal  descend- 
ant of  the  brother  of  your  Jocelin! — the  knight  who 
disappeared  and  took  to  farming  in  the  days  of  Eliza- 
beth!" he  said — "Upon  my  word,  it's  a  quaint  bit 
of  history  and  coincidence — almost  too  romantic  for 
such  days  as  these!" 

Innocent  smiled. 

"Is  romance  at  an  end  now?"  she  asked. 

Harrington  looked  at  her  kindly. 

"Almost!  It's  gasping  its  last  gasp  in  company 
with  poetry.  Realism  is  our  only  wear — Realism 
and  Prose — very  prosy  Prose.  You  are  a  romantic 
child! — I  can  see  that! — but  don't  over-do  it!  And 
if  you  ever  made  an  ideal  out  of  your  sixteenth-cen- 
tury man,  don't  make  another  out  of  the  twentieth- 
century  one!  He  couldn't  stand  it! — he'd  crumble 
at  a  touch!" 

She  answered  nothing,  but  avoided  his  glance.  He 
prepared  to  take  his  leave — and  on  rising  from  his 
chair  suddenly  caught  sight  of  the  portrait  on  the 
harpsichord. 

"I  know  that  face!"  he  said,  quickly, — "Who  is 
he?" 

"He  was  also  a  painter — as  great  as  the  one  we 
have  just  been  speaking  of,"  answered  Miss  Leigh — 
"His  name  was  Pierce  Armitage." 

"That's  it!"  exclaimed  Harrington,  with  some  ex- 
citement. "Of  course!  Pierce  Armitage!  I  knew 
him!  One  of  the  handsomest  fellows  I  ever  saw! 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     279! 

There  was  an  artist,  if  you  like! — he  might  have 
been  anything!  What  became  of  him?— do  you 
know?" 

"He  died  abroad,  so  it  is  said" — and  Miss  Leigh's 
gentle  voice  trembled  a  little — "but  nothing  is  quite 
certainly  known " 

Harrington  turned  swiftly  to  stare  eagerly  at  In- 
nocent. 

"Your  name  is  Armitage!"  he  said — "and  do  you 
know  you  are  rather  like  him!  Your  face  reminds 
me Are  you  any  relative?" 

She  gave  the  usual  answer — 

"No." 

"Strange!"  He  bent  his  eyes  scrutinisingly  upon 
her.  "I  remember  I  thought  the  same  thing  when 
I  first  met  you — and  his  features  are  not  easily  for- 
gotten! You  have  his  eyes — and  mouth, — you 
might  almost  be  his  daughter!" 

Her  breath  quickened — 

"I  wish  I  were!"  she  said. 

He  still  looked  puzzled. 

"No — don't  wish  for  what  would  perhaps  be  a 
misfortune!"  he  said — "You've  done  very  well  for 
yourself! — but  don't  be  romantic!  Keep  that  old 
'French  knight'  of  yours  in  the  pages  of  an  old 
French  chronicle! — shut  the  volume, — lock  it  up, — 
and — lose  the  key!" 


CHAPTER   III 

SOME  weeks  later  on,  when  the  London  season  was 
at  its  height,  and  Fashion,  that  frilled  and  furbe- 
lowed  goddess,  sat  enthroned  in  state,  controlling  the 
moods  of  the  Meet  and  Select  which  she  chooses  to 
call  "society,"  Innocent  was  invited  to  the  house  of 
a  well-known  Duchess,  renowned  for  a  handsome 
personality,  and  also  for  an  unassailable  position, 
notwithstanding  certain  sinister  rumours.  People 
said — people  are  always  saying  something! — that 
her  morals  were  easy-going,  but  everyone  agreed  that 
her  taste  was  unimpeachable.  She—this  great  lady 
whose  rank  permitted  her  to  entertain  the  King  and 
Queen — heard  of  "Ena  Armitage"  as  the  brilliant  au- 
thor whose  books  were  the  talk  of  the  town,  and 
forthwith  made  up  her  mind  that  she  must  be  seen 
at  her  house  as  the  "sensation"  of  at  least  one  even- 
ing. To  this  end  she  glided  in  her  noiseless,  satin- 
cushioned  motor  brougham  up  to  the  door  of  Miss 
Leigh's  modest  little  dwelling  and  left  the  necessary 
slips  of  pasteboard  bearing  her  titled  name,  with 
similar  slips  on  behalf  of  her  husband  the  Duke, 
for  Miss  Armitage  and  Miss  Leigh.  The  slips  were 
followed  in  due  course  by  a  more  imposing  and  for- 
mal card  of  invitation  to  a  "Reception  and  Small 
Dance.  R.S.V.P."  On  receiving  this,  good  old  Miss 
Lavinia  was  a  little  fluttered  and  excited,  and  turn- 
ing it  over  and  over  in  her  hand,  looked  at  Innocent 
with  a  kind  of  nervous  anxiety. 

"I  think  we  ought  to  go,  my  dear,"  she  said — 
"or  rather — I  don't  know  about  myself — but  you 

280 


ought  to  go  certainly.  It's  a  great  house — a  great 
family — and  she  is  a  very  great  lady — a  little — well! 
— a  little  'modern'  perhaps " 

Innocent  lifted  her  eyebrows  with  a  slight,  almost 
weary  smile.  A  scarcely  perceptible  change  had 
come  over  her  of  late — a  change  too  subtle  to  be  no- 
ticed by  anyone  who  was  not  as  keenly  observant 
as  Miss  Lavinia — but  it  was  sufficient  to  give  the 
old  lady  who  loved  her  cause  for  a  suspicion  of 
trouble. 

"What  is  it  to  be  modern?"  she  asked — "In  your 
sense,  I  mean?  I  know  what  is  called  'modern'  gen- 
erally— bad  art,  bad  literature,  bad  manners  and  bad 
taste!  But  what  do  you  call  modern?" 

Miss  Leigh  considered — looking  at  the  girl  with 
steadfast,  kindly  eyes. 

"You  speak  a  trifle  bitterly — for  you,  dear  child!" 
she  said — "These  things  you  name  as  'modern'  truly 
are  so,  but  they  are  ancient  as  well!  The  world 
has  altered  very  little,  I  think.  What  we  call  'bad' 
has  always  existed  as  badness — it  is  only  presented 
to  us  in  different  forms " 

Innocent  laughed — a  soft  little  laugh  of  tender- 
ness. 

"Wise  godmother!"  she  said,  playfully — "You  talk 
like  a  book!" 

Miss  Lavinia  laughed  too,  and  a  pretty  pink  colour 
came  into  her  wan  cheeks. 

"Naughty  child,  you  are  making  fun  of  me!" 
she  said — "What  I  meant  about  the  Duchess " 

Innocent  stretched  out  her  hand  for  the  card  of 
invitation  and  looked  at  it. 

"Well!"  she  said,  slowly— "What  about  the 
Duchess?" 

Miss  Leigh  hesitated. 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  put  it,"  she  answered,  at 
lask— "She's  a  kind-hearted  woman — very  generous 


282  INNOCENT 

— and  most  helpful  in  works  of  charity.  I  never 
knew  such  energy  as  she  shows  in  organising  charity 
balls  and  bazaars! — perfectly  wonderful! — but  she 
likes  to  live  her  life " 

"Who  would  not!"  murmured  the  girl,  scarcely  au- 
dibly. 

"And  she  lives  it — very  much  so! — rather  to  the 
dregs!"  continued  the  old  lady,  with  emphasis. 
"She  has  no  real  aim  beyond  the  satisfaction  of  her 
own  vanity  and  social  power — and  you,  with  your 
beautiful  thoughts  and  ideals,  might  not  like  the 
kind  of  people  she  surrounds  herself  with — people, 
who  only  want  amusement  and  'sensation' — particu- 
larly sensation " 

Innocent  said  nothing  for  a  minute  or  two — then 
she  looked  up,  brightly. 

"To  go  or  not  to  go,  godmother  mine!  Which  is 
it  to  be?  The  decision  rests  with  you!  Yes,  or 
no?" 

"I  think  it  must  be  'yes' " — and  Miss  Leigh  em- 
phasised the  word  with  a  little  nod  of  her  head.  "It 
would  be  unwise  to  refuse — especially  just  now  when 
everyone  is  talking  of  you  and  wishing  to  see  you. 
And  you  are  quite  worth  seeing!" 

The  girl  gave  a  slight  gesture  of  indifference  and 
moved  away  slowly  and  listlessly,  as  though  fa- 
tigued by  the  mere  effort  of  speech.  Miss  Leigh 
noted  this  with  some  concern,  watching  her  as  she 
went,  and  admiring  the  supple  grace  of  her  small 
figure,  the  well-shaped  little  head  so  proudly  poised 
on  the  slim  throat,  and  the  burnished  sheen  of  her 
bright  hair. 

"She  grows  prettier  every  day,"  she  thought — 
"But  not  happier,  I  fear! — not  happier,  poor 
child!" 

Innocent  meanwhile,  upstairs  in  her  own  little 
study,  was  reading  and  re-reading  a  brief  letter 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     283 

which  had  come  for  her  by  the  same  post  that  had 
delivered  the  Duchess's  invitation. 

"I  hear  you  are  among  the  guests  invited  to  the 
Duchess  of  Deanshire's  party,"  it  ran — "I  hope  you 
will  go — for  the  purely  selfish  reason  that  I  want 
to  meet  you  there.  Hers  is  a  great  house  with  plenty 
of  room,  and  a  fine  garden — for  London.  People 
crowd  to  her  'crushes/  but  one  can  always  escape 
the  mob.  I  have  seen  so  little  of  you  lately,  and  you 
are  now  so  famous  that  I  shall  think  myself  lucky  if 
I  may  touch  the  hem  of  your  garment.  Will  you 
encourage  me  thus  far?  Like  Hamlet,  'I  lack  ad- 
vancement' !  When  will  you  take  me  to  Briar  Farm? 
I  should  like  to  see  the  tomb  of  my  very  ancestral 
uncle — could  we  not  arrange  a  day's  outing  in  the 
country  while  the  weather  is  fine?  I  throw  myself 
on  your  consideration  and  clemency  for  this — and 
for  many  other  unwritten  things! 

Yours, 

AMADIS  DE  JOCELYN." 

There  was  nothing  in  this  easily  worded  scrawl  to 
make  an  ordinarily  normal  heart  beat  faster,  yet  the 
heart  of  this  simple  child  of  the  gods,  gifted  with 
genius  and  deprived  of  worldly  wisdom  as  all  such 
divine  children  are,  throbbed  uneasily,  and  her  eyes 
were  wet.  More  than  this,  she  touched  the  signa- 
ture,— the  long-familiar  name — with  her  soft  lips, — 
and  as  though  afraid  of  what  she  had  done,  hurriedly 
folded  the  letter  and  locked  it  away. 

Then  she  sat  down  and  thought.  Nearly  two  years 
had  elapsed  since  she  had  left  Briar  Farm,  and  in, 
that  short  time  she  had  made  the  name  she  had 
adopted  famous.  She  could  not  call  it  her  own 
name ;  born  out  of  wedlock,  she  had  no  right,  by  the 
stupid  law,  to  the  name  of  her  father.  She  could, 


284  INNOCENT 

legally,  have  worn  the  maiden  name  of  her  mother 
had  she  known  it — but  she  did  not  know  it.  And 
what  she  was  thinking  of  now,  was  this:  Should  she 
tell  her  lately  discovered  second  "Amadis  de  Joce- 
lyn"  the  true  story  of  her  birth  and  parentage  at 
this,  the  outset  of  their  friendship,  before — well,  be- 
fore it  went  any  further?  She  could  not  consult  Miss 
Leigh  on  the  point,  without  smirching  the  reputa- 
tion of  Pierce  Armitage,  the  man  whose  memory 
was  enshrined  in  that  dear  lady's  heart  as  a  thing 
of  unsullied  honour.  She  puzzled  herself  over  the 
question  for  a  long  time,  and  then  decided  to  keep 
her  own  counsel. 

"After  all,  why  should  I  tell  him?"  she  asked  her- 
self. "It  might  make  trouble — he  is  so  proud  of  his, 
lineage,  and  I  too  am  proud  of  it  for  him !  .  .  .  why 
should  I  let  him  know  that  I  inherit  nothing  but  my 
mother's  shame!" 

Her  heart  grew  heavy  as  her  position  was  thus 
forced  back  upon  her  by  her  own  thoughts.  Up  to 
the  present  no  one  had  asked  who  she  was,  or  where 
she  came  from — she  was  understood  to  be  an  orphan, 
left  alone  in  the  world,  who  by  her  own  genius  and 
unaided  effort  had  lifted  herself  into  the  front  rank 
among  the  "shining  lights"  of  the  day.  This,  so  far, 
had  been  sufficient  information  for  all  with  whom 
she  had  come  in  contact — but  as  time  went  on,  would 
not  people  ask  more  about  her? — who  were  her  father 
and  mother? — where  she  was  born? — how  she  had 
been  educated?  These  inquisitorial  demands  were 
surely  among  the  penalties  of  fame!  And,  if  she  told 
the  truth,  would  she  not,  despite  the  renown  she  had 
won,  be  lightly,  even  scornfully  esteemed  by  con- 
ventional society  as  a  "bastard"  and  interloper, 
though  the  manner  of  her  birth  was  no  fault  of  her 
own,  and  she  was  unjustly  punishable  for  the  sins 
of  her  parents,  such  being  the  wicked  law! 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     285 

The  night  of  the  Duchess's  reception  was  one  of 
those  close  sultry  nights  of  June  in  London  when  the 
atmosphere  is  well-nigh  as  suffocating  as  that  of 
some  foetid  prison  where  criminals  have  been  pacing 
their  dreary  round  all  day.  Royal  Ascot  was  just 
over,  and  space  and  opportunity  were  given  for  sev- 
eral social  entertainments  to  be  conveniently  checked 
off  before  Henley.  Outside  the  Duke's  great  house 
there  was  a  constant  stream  of  motor-cars  and  taxi- 
cabs;  a  passing  stranger  might  have  imagined  all 
the  world  and  his  wife  were  going  to  the  Duchess's 
"At  Home."  It  was  difficult  to  effect  an  entrance, 
but  once  inside,  the 'scene  was  one  of  veritable  en- 
chantment. The  lovely  hues  and  odours  of  flowers, 
the  softened  glitter  of  thousands  of  electric  lamps 
shaded  with  rose-colour,  the  bewildering  brilliancy 
of  women's  clothes  and  jewels,  the  exquisite  music 
pouring  like  a  rippling  stream  through  the  magnifi- 
cent reception-rooms,  all  combined  to  create  a  magi- 
cal effect  of  sensuous  beauty  and  luxury ;  and  as  In- 
nocent, accompanied  by  the  sweet-faced  old-fash- 
ioned lady  who  played  the  part  of  chaperone  with 
such  gentle  dignity,  approached  her  hostess,  she  was 
a  little  dazzled  and  nervous.  Her  timidity  made  her 
look  all  the  more  charming — she  had  the  air  of  a 
wondering  child  called  up  to  receive  an  unexpected 
prize  at  school.  She  shrank  visibly  when  her  name 
was  shouted  out  in  a  stentorian  voice  by  the  gor- 
geously liveried  major-domo  in  attendance,  quite  un- 
aware that  ic  created  a  thrill  throughout  the  fash- 
ionable assemblage,  and  that  all  eyes  were  instantly 
upon  her.  The  Duchess,  diamond-crowned  and  glori- 
ous in  gold-embroidered  tissue,  kept  back  by  a  slight 
gesture  the  pressing  crowd  of  guests,  and  extended 
her  hand  with  marked  graciousness  and  a  delightful 
smile. 

"Such  a  pleasure  and  honour!"  she  said,  sweetly — 


286  INNOCENT 

"So  good  of  you  to  come!  You  will  give  me  a  few 
words  with  you  later  on?  Yes?  Everybody  will 
want  to  speak  to  you! — but  you  must  let  me  have  a 
chance  too!" 

Innocent  murmured  something  gently  deprecatory 
as  a  palliative  to  this  sort  of  society  "gush"  which 
always  troubled  her — and  moved  on.  Everybody 
gazed,  whispered  and  wondered,  astonished  at  the 
youth  and  evident  unworldliness  of  the  "author  of 
those  marvellous  books!" — so  the  commentary  ran; 
— the  women  criticised  her  gown,  which  was  one 
of  pale  blue  silken  stuff  caught  at  the  waist  and 
shoulders  by  quaint  clasps  of  dull  gold — a  gown  with 
nothing  remarkable  about  it  save  its  cut  and  fit — 
melting  itself,  as  it  were,  around  her  in  harmonious 
folds  of  fine  azure  which  suggested  without  empha- 
sising the  graceful  lines  of  her  form.  The  men 
looked,  and  said  nothing  much  except  "A  pity  she's 
a  writing  woman!  Mucking  about  Fleet  Street!" — 
mere  senseless  talk  which  they  knew  to  be  senseless, 
inasmuch  as  "mucking"  about  Fleet  Street  is  no  part 
of  any  writer's  business  save  that  of  the  professional 
journalist.  Happily  ignorant  of  comment,  the  girl 
made  her  way  quietly  and  unobtrusively  through  the 
splendid  throng,  till  she  was  presently  addressed  by 
a  stoutish,  pleasant-featured  man,  with  small  twink- 
ling eyes  and  an  agreeable  surface  manner. 

"I  missed  you  just  now  when  my  wife  received 
you,"  he  said — "May  I  present  myself?  I  am  your 
host — proud  of  the  privilege!" 

Innocent  smiled  as  she  bowed  and  held  out  her 
hand;  she  was  amused,  and  taken  a  little  by  sur- 
prise. This  was  the  Duke  of  Deanshire — this  quite 
insignificant-looking  personage — he  was  the  owner  of 
the  great  house  and  the  husband  of  the  great  lady, — 
and  yet  he  had  the  appearance  of  a  very  ordinary 
nobody.  But  that  he  was  a  "somebody"  of  para- 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    287 

mount  importance  there  was  no  doubt;  and  when  he 
said,  "May  I  give  you  my  arm  and  take  you  through 
the  rooms?  There  are  one  or  two  pictures  you  may 
like  to  see,"  she  was  a  little  startled.  She  looked 
round  for  Miss  Leigh,  but  that  tactful  lady,  seeing 
the  position,  had  disappeared.  So  she  laid  her  little 
cream-gloved  hand  on  the  Duke's  arm  and  went  with 
him,  shyly  at  first,  yet  with  a  pretty  stateliness 
which  was  all  her  own,  and  moving  slowly  among  the 
crowd  of  guests,  gradually  recovered  her  ease  and 
self-possession,  and  began  to  talk  to  him  with  a  de- 
lightful naturalness  and  candour  which  fairly  capti- 
vated His  Grace,  in  fact,  "bowled  him  over,"  as  he 
afterwards  declared.  She  was  blissfully  unaware 
that  his  manner  of  escorting  her  on  his  arm  through 
the  long  vista  of  the  magnificent  rooms  had  been 
commanded  and  arranged  by  the  Duchess,  in  order 
that  she  should  be  well  looked  at  and  criticised  by  all 
assembled  as  the  "show"  person  of  the  evening.  She 
was  so  unconscious  of  the  ordeal  to  which  she  was 
being  subjected  that  she  bore  it  with  the  perfect  in- 
difference which  such  unconsciousness  gives.  All  at 
once  the  Duke  came  to  a  standstill. 

"Here  is  a  great  friend  of  mine — one  of  the  best  I 
have  in  the  world,"  he  said — "I  want  to  introduce 
him  to  you," — this,  as  a  tall  old  man  paused  near 
them  with  a  smile  and  enquiring  glance,  "Lord 
Blythe — Miss  Armitage." 

Innocent's  heart  gave  a  wild  bound ;  for  a  moment 
she  felt  a  struggling  sensation  in  her  throat  moving 
her  to  cry  out,  and  it  was  only  with  a  violent  effort 
that  she  repressed  herself. 

"You've  heard  of  Miss  Armitage — Ena  Armitage, 
— haven't  you,  Blythe?"  went  on  the  Duke,  garru- 
lously. "Of  course!  all  the  world  has  heard  of  her!" 

"Indeed  it  has!"  and  Lord  Blythe  bowed  cere- 
moniously. "May  I  congratulate  you  on  winning 


288  INNOCENT 

your  laurels  while  you  are  young  enough  to  enjoy 
them!  One  moment! — my  wife  is  most  anxious  to 
meet  you— 

He  turned  to  look  for  her,  while  Innocent,  tremb- 
ling violently,  wondered  desperately  whether  it 
would  be  possible  for  her  to  run  away! — anywhere 
— anywhere,  rather  than  endure  what  she  knew  must 
come!  The  Duke  noticed  her  sudden  pallor  with 
concern. 

"Are  you  cold?"  he  asked — "I  hope  there  is  no 
draught " 

"Oh  no — no!"  she  murmured — "It  is  nothing " 

Then  she  braced  herself  up  in  every  nerve — draw- 
ing her  little  body  erect,  as  though  a  lily  should  lift 
itself  to  the  sun — she  saw  Lord  Blythe  approaching 
with  a  handsome  woman  dressed  in  silvery  grey  and 
wearing  a  coronet  of  emeralds — and  in  one  more  mo- 
ment looked  full  in  the  face — of  her  mother! 

"Lady  Blythe— Miss  Armitage." 

Lady  Blythe  turned  white  to  the  lips.  Her  dark 
eyes  opened  widely  in  amazement  and  fear — she  put 
out  a  hand  as  though  to  steady  herself.  Her  husband 
caught  it,  alarmed. 

"Maude!    Are  you  ill?" 

"Not  at  all!"  and  she  forced  a  laugh.  "I  am  per- 
fectly— perfectly  well! — a  little  faint  perhaps!  The 
heat,  I  think!  Yes — of  course!  Miss  Armitage — the 
famous  author!  I  am — I  am  very  proud  to  meet 
you!" 

"Most  kind  of  you ! "  said  Innocent,  quietly. 

And  they  still  looked  at  each  other,  very  strangely. 

The  men  beside  them  were  a  little  embarrassed, 
the  Duke  twirled  his  short  white  moustache,  and 
Lord  Blythe  glanced  at  his  wife  with  some  wonder 
and  curiosity.  Both  imagined,  with  the  usual  short- 
sightedness of  the  male  sex,  that  the  women  had 
taken  a  sudden  fantastic  dislike  to  one  another. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     289 

"By  jove,  she's  jealous!"  thought  the  Duke,  fully 
aware  that  Lady  Blythe  was  occasionally  "moved 
that  way." 

"The  girl  seems  frightened  of  her,"  was  Lord 
Blythe's  inward  comment,  knowing  that  his  wife  did 
not  always  create  a  sympathetic  atmosphere. 

But  her  ladyship  was  soon  herself  again  and 
laughed  quite  merrily  at  her  husband's  anxious  ex- 
pression. 

"I'm  all  right — really!"  she  said,  with  a  quick, 
almost  defiant  turn  of  her  head  towards  him,  the 
emeralds  in  her  dark  hair  flashing  with  a  sinister 
gleam  like  lightning  on  still  water.  "You  must  re- 
member it's  rather  overwhelming  to  be  introduced  to 
a  famous  author  and  think  of  just  the  right  thing  to 
say  at  the  right  moment!  Isn't  it,  Miss  Armitage?" 

"It  is  as  you  feel,"  replied  Innocent,  coldly. 

Lady  Blythe  rattled  on  gaily. 

"Do  come  and  talk  to  me  for  a  few  moments! — it 
will  be  so  good  of  you!  The  garden's  lovely! — shall 
we  go  there?  Now,  my  dear  Duke,  don't  look  so 
cross,  I'll  bring  her  back  to  you  directly!"  and  she 
nodded  pleasantly.  "You  want  her,  of  course! — 
everybody  wants  her! — such  a  celebrity!"  then,  turn- 
ing again  to  Innocent,  "Will  you  come?" 

As  one  in  a  dream  the  girl  obeyed  her  inviting 
gesture,  and  they  passed  out  of  the  room  together 
through  a  large  open  French  window  to  a  terraced 
garden,  dimly  illumined  in  the  distance  by  the  glit- 
ter of  fairy  lamps,  but  for  the  most  part  left  to  the 
tempered  brilliancy  of  a  misty  red  moon.  Once 
away  from  the  crowd,  Lady  Blythe  walked  quickly 
and  impatiently,  scarcely  looking  at  the  youthful 
figure  that  accompanied  her  own,  like  a  fair  ghost 
gliding  step  for  step  beside  her.  At  last  she  stopped ; 
they  were  well  away  from  the  house  in  a  quaint  bit 
of  garden  shaded  with  formal  fir-trees  and  clipped 


290  INNOCENT 

yews,  where  a  fountain  dashed  up  a  slender  spiral 
thread  of  white  spray.  A  strange  sense  of  fury  in 
her  broke  loose;  with  pale  face  and  cruel,  glittering 
eyes  she  turned  upon  her  daughter. 

"How  dare  you!"  she  half  whispered,  through  her 
set  teeth — "How  dare  you!" 

Innocent  drew  back  a  step,  and  looked  at  her 
steadfastly. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  she  said. 

"You  do  understand! — you  understand  only  too 
well!"  and  Lady  Blythe  put  her  hand  to  the  pearls 
at  her  throat  as  though  she  felt  them  choking  her. 
"Oh,  I  could  strike  you  for  your  insolence!  I  wish 
I  had  never  sought  you  out  or  told  you  how  you 
were  born!  Is  this  your  revenge  for  the  manner  of 
your  birth,  that  you  come  to  shame  me  among  my 
own  class — my  own  people " 

Innocent's  eyes  flashed  with  a  fire  seldom  seen  in 
their  soft  depths. 

"Shame  you?"  she  echoed.  "I?  What  shame  have 
I  brought  you?  What  shame  shall  I  bring?  Had 
you  owned  me  as  your  child  I  would  have  made  you 
proud  of  me!  I  would  have  given  you  honour, — 
you  abandoned  me  to  strangers,  and  I  have  made 
honour  for  myself!  Shame  is  yours  and  yours  only! 
— it  would  be  mine  if  I  had  to  acknowledge  you  as 
my  mother! — you  who  never  had  the  courage  to  be 
true!"  Her  young  voice  thrilled  with  passion. — "I 
have  won  my  own  way!  I  am  something  beyond 
and  above  you! — 'your  own  class — your  own  peo- 
ple/ as  you  call  them,  are  at  my  feet, — and  you 
— you  who  played  with  my  father's  heart  and  spoilt 
his  career — you  have  lived  to  know  that  I,  his  de- 
serted child,  have  made  his  name  famous!" 

Lady  Blythe  stared  at  her  like  some  enraged  cat 
ready  to  spring. 

"His  name — his  name!"  she  muttered,  fiercely. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     291 

"Yes,  and  how  dare  you  take  it?    You  have  no  right 
to  it  in  law!" 

"Wise  law,  just  law!"  said  the  girl,  passionately. 
"Would  you  rather  I  had  taken  yours?  I  might 
have  done  so  had  I  known  it — though  I  think  not,  as 
I  should  have  been  ashamed  of  any  'maiden'  name 
you  had  dishonoured!  When  you  came  to  Briar 
Farm  to  find  me — to  see  me — so  late,  so  late! — after 
long  years  of  desertion — I  told  you  it  was  possible 
to  make  a  name; — one  cannot  go  nameless  through 
the  world!  I  have  made  mine! — independently  and 
honestly — in  fact" — and  she  smiled,  a  sad  cold  smile 
— "it  is  an  honour  for  you,  my  mother,  to  know  me, 
your  daughter!" 

Lady  Blythe's  face  grew  ghastly  pale  in  the  un- 
certain light  of  the  half-veiled  moon.  She  moved 
a  step  and  caught  the  girl's  arm  with  some  vio- 
lence. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do?"  she  asked,  in  an  angry 
whisper,  "I  must  know!  What  are  your  plans  of 
vengeance? — your  campaign  of  notoriety? — your 
scheme  of  self-advertisement?  WTiat  claim  will  you 
make?" 

"None!"  and  Innocent  looked  at  her  fully,  with 
calm  and  fearless  dignity.  "I  have  no  claim  upon 
you,  thank  God!  I  am  less  to  you  than  a  dropped 
lamb,  lost  in  a  thicket  of  thorns,  is  to  the  sheep  that 
bore  it!  That's  a  rough  country  simile, — I  was 
brought  up  on  a  farm,  you  know! — but  it  will  serve 
your  case.  Think  nothing  of  me,  as  I  think  nothing 
of  you !  What  I  am,  or  what  I  may  be  to  the  world, 
is  my  own  affair!" 

There  was  a  pause.  Presently  Lady  Blythe  gave  a 
kind  of  shrill  hysterical  laugh. 

"Then,  when  we  meet  in  society,  as  we  have  met 
to-night,  it  will  be  as  comparative  strangers?" 

"Why,     of     course! — we     have     always     been 


292  INNOCENT 

strangers,"  the  girl  replied,  quietly.    "No  strangers 
were  ever  more  strange  to  each  other  than  we!" 

"You  mean  to  keep  my  secret? — and  your  own?" 

"Certainly.  Do  you  suppose  I  would  give  my 
father's  name  to  slander?" 

"Your  father! — you  talk  of  your  father  as  if  he 
was  worth  consideration! — he  was  chiefly  to  blame 
for  your  position " 

"Was  he?  I  am  not  quite  sure  of  that,"  said  In- 
nocent, slowly — "I  do  not  know  all  the  circum- 
stances. But  I  have  heard  that  he  was  a  great  ar- 
tist; and  that  some  woman  he  loved  ruined  his  life. 
And  I  believe  you  are  that  woman!" 

Lady  Blythe  laughed — a  hard  mirthless  laugh. 

"Believe  what  you  like!"  she  said — "You  are  an 
imaginative  little  fool !  When  you  know  more  of  the 
world  you  will  find  out  that  men  ruin  women's  lives 
as  casually  as  cracking  nuts,  but  they  take  jolly  good 
care  of  their  own  skins!  Pierce  Armitage  was  too 
selfish  a  man  to  sacrifice  his  own  pleasure  and  com- 
fort for  anyone — he  was  glad  to  get  rid  of  me — and 
of  you!  And  now — now!"  She  threw  up  her  hands 
with  an  expressive,  half-tragic  gesture.  "Now  you 
are  famous! — actually  famous!  Good  heavens! — 
why,  I  thought  you  would  stay  in  that  old  farm- 
house all  your  life,  scrubbing  the  floors  and  looking 
after  the  poultry,  and  perhaps  marrying  some  good- 
natured  country  yokel!  Famous! — you! — with  so- 
cial London  dancing  attendance  on  you!  What  a 
ghastly  comedy!"  She  laughed  again.  "Come! — we 
must  go  back  to  the  house." 

They  walked  side  by  side — the  dark  full-figured 
woman  and  the  fair  slight  girl — the  one  a  mere 
ephemeral  unit  in  an  exclusively  aristocratic  and 
fashionable  "set," — the  other,  the  possessor  of  a  sud- 
den brilliant  fame  which  was  spreading  a  new  light 
across  the  two  hemispheres.  Not  another  word  was 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     293 

exchanged  between  them,  and  as  they  re-entered 
the  ducal  reception-rooms,  now  more  crowded  than 
ever,  Lord  Blythe  met  them. 

"I  was  just  going  to  look  for  you,"  he  said  to  his 
wife — "There  are  dozens  of  people  waiting  to  be  pre- 
sented to  Miss  Armitage ;  the  Duchess  has  asked  for 
her  several  times." 

Lady  Blythe  turned  to  Innocent  with  a  dazzling 
smile. 

"How  guilty  I  feel!"  she  exclaimed.  "Everybody 
wanting  to  see  you,  and  I  selfishly  detaining  you  in 
the  garden !  It  was  so  good  of  you  to  give  me  a  few 
minutes! — you,  the  guest  of  the  evening  too!  Good- 
night!— in  case  I  don't  find  you  again  in  this  crowd!" 

She  moved  away  then,  leaving  Innocent  fairly  be- 
wildered by  her  entire  coolness  and  self-possession. 
She  herself,  poor  child,  moved  to  the  very  soul  by 
the  interview  she  had  just  gone  through,  was 
trembling  with  extreme  nervousness,  and  could 
hardly  conceal  her  agitation. 

"I'm  afraid  you've  caught  cold!"  said  Lord  Blythe, 
kindly — "That  will  never  do!  I  promised  I  would 
take  you  to  the  Duchess  as  soon  as  I  found  you — 
she  has  some  friends  with  her  who  wish  to  meet  you. 
Will  you  come?" 

She  smiled  assent,  looking  up  at  him  gratefully 
and  thinking  what  a  handsome  old  man  he  was,  with 
his  tall,  well-formed  figure  and  fine  intellectual  face 
on  which  the  constant  progress  of  good  thoughts  had 
marked  many  a  pleasant  line.  Her  mother's  hus- 
band!— and  she  wondered  how  it  happened  that  such 
a  woman  had  been  chosen  for  a  wife  by  such  a  man ! 

"They're  going  to  dance  in  the  ball-room  directly," 
he  continued,  as  he  guided  her  through  the  pressing 
throng  of  people.  "You  will  not  be  without  part- 
ners! Are  you  fond  of  dancing?" 

Her  face  lighted  up  with  the  lovely  youthful  look 


294  INNOCENT 

that  gave  her  such  fascination  and  sweetness  of 
expression. 

"Yes,  I  like  it  very  much,  though  before  I  came  to 
London  I  only  knew  country  dances  such  as  they 
dance  at  harvest-homes ;  but  of  course  here,  you  all 
dance  so  differently! — it  is  only  just  going  round 
and  round!  But  it's  quite  pleasant  and  rather 
amusing." 

"You  were  brought  up  in  the  country  then?"  he 
said. 

"Yes,  entirely.  I  came  to  London  about  two  years 
ago." 

"But — I  hope  you  don't  think  me  too  inquisitive ! 
— where  did  you  study  literature?" 

She  laughed  a  little. 

"I  don't  think  I  studied  it  at  all,"  she  answered, 
"I  just  loved  it!  There  was  a  small  library  of  very 
old  books  in  the  farmhouse  where  I  lived,  and  I  read 
and  re-read  these.  Then,  when  I  was  about  sixteen, 
it  suddenly  came  into  my  head  that  I  would  try  to 
write  a  story  myself — and  I  did.  Little  by  little  it 
grew  into  a  book,  and  I  brought  it  to  London  and 
finished  it  here.  You  know  the  rest!" 

"Like  Byron,  you  awoke  one  morning  to  find  your- 
self famous!"  said  Lord  Blythe,  smiling.  "You  have 
no  parents  living?" 

Her  cheeks  burned  with  a  hot  blush  as  she  re- 
plied. 

"NO/; 

"A  pity!  They  would  have  been  very  proud  of 
you.  Here  is  the  Duchess!" 

And  in  another  moment  she  was  drawn  into  the 
vortex  of  a  brilliant  circle  surrounding  her  hostess — 
men  and  women  of  notable  standing  in  politics,  art 
and  letters,  to  whom  the  Duchess  presented  her  with 
the  half  kindly,  half  patronising  air  of  one  who  feels 
that  any  genius  in  man  or  woman  is  a  kind  of  disease, 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     295 

and  that  the  person  affected  by  it  must  be  soothingly 
considered  as  a  sort  of  "freak"  or  nondescript  crea- 
ture, like  a  white  crow  or  a  red  starling. 

"These  abnormal  people  are  so  interesting!"  she 
was  wont  to  say.  "These  prodigies  and  things!  I 
love  them !  They're  often  quite  ugly  and  have  rude 
manners — Beethoven  used  to  eat  with  his  fingers  I 
believe;  wasn't  it  wonderful  of  him!  Such  a  relief 
from  the  conventional  way!  When  I  was  quite  a 
girl  I  used  to  adore  a  man  in  Paris  who  played  the 
'cello  divinely — a  perfect  marvel! — but  he  wouldn't 
comb  his  hair  or  blow  his  nose  properly — and  it 
wasn't  very  nice! — not  that  it  mattered  much,  he 
was  such  a  wonderful  artist!  Oh  yes,  I  know!  it 
wouldn't  have  lessened  his  genius  to  have  wiped  his 

nose  with  a  handkerchief  instead  of !  well! — 

perhaps  we'd  better  not  mention  it ! "  And  she  would 
laugh  charmingly  and  again  murmur,  "These  dear 
abnormal  people!" 

With  Innocent,  however,  she  was  somewhat  put 
off  her  usual  line  of  conduct ;  the  girl  was  too  grace- 
ful and  easy-mannered  to  be  called  "abnormal"  or 
eccentric;  she  was  perfectly  modest,  simple  and  un- 
affected, and  the  Duchess  was  a  trifle  disappointed 
that  she  was  not  ill-dressed,  frowsy,  frumpish  and 
blue-spectacled. 

"She's  so  young  too!"  thought  her  Grace,  half 
crossly — "Almost  a  child! — and  not  in  the  least 
'bookish.'  It  seems  quite  absurd  that  such  a  baby- 
looking  creature  should  be  actually  a  genius,  and 
famous  at  twenty!  Simply  amazing!" 

And  she  watched  the  little  "lion"  or  lioness  of  the 
evening  with  keen  interest  and  curiosity,  whimsically 
vexed  that  it  did  not  roar,  snort,  or  make  itself  as 
noticeable  as  certain  other  animals  of  the  literary 
habitat  whom  she  had  occasionally  entertained.  Just 
then  a  mirthful,  mellow  voice  spoke  close  beside  her. 


296  INNOCENT 

"Where  is  the  new  Corinne?  The  Sappho  of  the 
Leucadian  rock  of  London?  Has  she  met  her 
Phaon?" 

"How.  late  you  are,  Amadis!"  and  the  Duchess 
smiled  captivatingly  as  she  extended  her  hand  to 
Jocelyn,  who  gallantly  stooped  and  kissed  the  per- 
fectly fitting  glove  which  covered  it.  "If  you  mean 
Miss  Armitage,  she  is  just  over  there  talking  to  two 
old  fogies.  I  think  they're  Cabinet  ministers — they 
look  it !  She's  quite  the  success  of  the  evening, — and 
pretty,  don't  you  think?" 

Jocelyn  looked,  and  saw  the  small  fair  head  rising 
like  a  golden  flower  from  sea-blue  draperies;  he 
smiled  enigmatically. 

"Not  exactly,"  he  answered,  "But  spirituelle — she 
has  what  some  painters  might  call  an  imaginative 
head — she  could  pose  very  well  for  St.  Dorothy.  I 
can  quite  realise  her  preferring  the  executioner's  axe 
to  the  embraces  of  Theophilus." 

The  Duchess  gave  him  a  swift  glance  and  touched 
his  arm  with  the  edge  of  her  fan. 

"Are  you  going  to  make  love  to  her?"  she  asked. 
"You  make  love  to  every  woman — but  most  women 
understand  your  sort  of  love-making " 

"Do  they?"  and  his  blue  eyes  flashed  amusement. 
"And  what  do  they  think  of  it?" 

"They  laugh  at  it!"  she  answered,  calmly.  "But 
that  clever  child  would  not  laugh — she  would  take 
it  au  grand  serieux." 

He  passed  his  hand  carelessly  through  the  rough 
dark  hair  which  gave  his  ruggedly  handsome  features 
a  singular  softness  and  charm. 

"Would  she?  My  dear  Duchess,  nobody  takes 
anything  'au  grand  serieux'  nowadays.  We  grin 
through  every  scene  of  life,  and  we  don't  know  and 
don't  care  whether  it's  comedy  or  tragedy  we're  grin- 
ning at!  It  doesn't  do  to  be  serious.  I  never  am. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     297 

'Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest'  was  the  line  of  conduct 
practised  by  my  French  ancestors;  they  cut  up  all 
their  enemies  with  long  swords,  and  then  sat  down 
to  wild  boar  roasted  whole  for  dinner.  That  was 
real  life,  earnest  life!  We  in  our  day  don't  cut  up 
our  enemies  with  long  swords — we  cut  them  up  in 
the  daily  press.  It's  so  much  easier!" 

"How  you  love  to  hear  yourself  talk!"  commented 
the  Duchess.  "I  let  you  do  it — but  I  know  you  don't 
mean  half  you  say!" 

"You  think  not?  Well,  I'm  going  to  join  the  court 
of  Corinne — she's  not  the  usual  type  of  Corinne — I 
fancy  she  has  a  heart " 

"And  you  want  to  steal  it  if  you  can,  of  course!" 
and  the  Duchess  laughed.  "Men  always  long 
for  what  they  haven't  got,  and  tire  of  what  they 
have!" 

"True,  0  Queen!  We  are  made  so!  Blame,  not 
us,  but  the  Creator  of  the  poor  world-mannikins!" 

He  moved  away  and  was  soon  beside  Innocent, 
who  blushed  into  a  pretty  rose  at  sight  of  him. 

"I  thought  you  were  never  coming!"  she  said, 
shyly.  "I'm  so  glad  you  are  here!" 

He  looked  at  her  with  an  admiring  softness  in  his 
eyes. 

"May  I  have  the  first  dance?"  he  said.  "I 
timed  myself  to  gain  the  privilege." 

She  gave  him  her  dance  programme  where  no  name 
was  yet  inscribed.  He  took  it  and  scribbled  his 
name  down  several  times,  then  handed  it  back  to 
her.  Several  of  the  younger  men  in  the  group  which 
had  gathered  about  her  laughed  and  remonstrated. 

"Give  somebody  else  a  chance,  Miss  Armitage!" 

She  looked  round  upon  them,  smiling. 

"But  of  course!  Mr.  Amadis  de  Jocelyn  has  not 
taken  all?" 

They  laughed  again. 


298  INNOCENT 

"His  name  dominates  your  programme,  any- 
how!" 

Her  eyes  shone  softly. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  name!"  she  said. 

"Granted!  But  show  a  little  mercy  to  the  un- 
beautiful  names!"  said  one  man  near  her.  "My 
name,  for  instance,  is  Smith — can  you  tolerate  it?" 

She  gave  a  light  gesture  of  protest. 

"You  play  with  me!"  she  said — "Of  course!  You 
will  find  a  dance,  Mr.  Smith! — and  I  will  dance  it 
with  you!" 

They  were  all  now  ready  for  fun,  and  taking  her 
programme  handed  it  round  amongst  themselves  and 
soon  filled  it.  When  it  came  back  to  her  she  looked 
at  it,  amazed. 

"But  I  shall  never  dance  all  these!"  she  exclaimed. 

"No,  you  will  sit  out  some  of  them,"  said  Jocelyn, 
coolly— "With  me!" 

The  ball-room  doors  were  just  then  thrown  in- 
vitingly open  and  entrancing  strains  of  rhythmical 
music  came  swinging  and  ringing  in  sweet  cadence 
on  the  ears.  He  passed  his  arm  round  her  waist. 

"We'll  begin  the  revelry!"  he  said,  and  in  an- 
other moment  she  felt  herself  floating  deliciously,  as 
it  were,  in  his  arms — her  little  feet  flying  over  the 
polished  floor,  his  hand  warmly  clasping  her  slim 
soft  body — and  her  heart  fluttered  wildly  like  the 
beating  wings  of  a  snared  bird  as  she  fell  into  the 
mystic  web  woven  by  the  strange  and  pitiless  loom 
of  destiny.  The  threads  were  already  tangling  about 
her — but  she  made  no  effort  to  escape.  She  was 
happy  in  her  dream;  she  imagined  that  her  Ideal 
had  been  found  in  the  Real. 


CHAPTER   IV 

THE  first  waltz  over,  Jocelyn  led  his  partner  out  of 
the  ball-room. 

"Come  into  the  garden,"  he  said.  "It's  quite  a 
real  garden  for  London — and  I  know  every  inch  of 
it.  We'll  find  a  quiet  corner  and  sit  down  and  rest." 

She  answered  nothing — she  was  flushed,  and 
breathing  quickly  from  the  excitement  of  the  dance, 
and  he  paused  on  his  way  to  pick  up  a  light  wrap 
he  found  on  one  of  the  sofas,  and  put  it  round  her 
shoulders. 

"You  mustn't  catch  a  chill,"  he  went  on.  "But 
it's  not  a  cold  night — in  fact  it's  very  close  and  sul- 
try— almost  like  thunder.  A  little  air  will  be  good 
for  us." 

They  went  together,  pacing  along  slowly — she 
meanwhile  thinking  of  her  previous  walk  in  that 
same  garden! — what  would  he,  Amadis  de  Jocelyn, 
say  of  it  and  of  her  "mother"  if  he  knew !  He  looked 
at  her  sideways  now  and  then,  curiously  moved  by 
mingled  pity,  admiration  and  desire, — the  cruelty 
latent  in  every  man  made  him  long  to  awaken  the 
first  spark  of  passion  in  that  maidenly  soul, — and 
with  the  full  consciousness  of  a  powerful  personality, 
he  was  perfectly  aware  that  he  could  do  so  if  he 
chose.  But  he  waited,  playing  with  the  fire  of  his 
own  inclinations,  and  talking  lightly  and  charmingly 
of  things  which  he  knew  would  interest  her  suf- 
ficiently to  make  her,  in  her  turn,  talk  to  him  nat- 
urally and  candidly,  thereby  displaying  more  or  less 
of  her  disposition  and  temperament.  With  every 

299 


300  INNOCENT 

word  she  spoke  he  found  her  more  and  more  fas- 
cinating— she  had  a  quaint  directness  of  speech 
which  was  extremely  refreshing  after  the  half-veiled 
subtleties  conveyed  in  the  often  dubious  conversa- 
tion of  the  women  he  was  accustomed  to  meet  in 
society — while  there  was  no  doubt  she  was  endowed 
with  extraordinary  intellectual  grasp  and  capacity. 
Her  knowledge  of  things  artistic  and  literary  might, 
perhaps,  have  been  termed  archaic,  but  it  was  based 
upon  the  principles  which  are  good  and  true  for  all 
time — and  as  she  told  him  quite  simply  and  unaf- 
fectedly of  her  studies  by  herself  among  the  old 
books  which  had  belonged  to  the  "Sieur  Amadis"  of 
Briar  Farm,  he  was  both  touched  and  interested. 

"So  you  made  quite  a  friend  of  the  Sieur  Ama- 
dis!" he  said.  "He  was  your  teacher  and  guide! 
I'm  jealous  of  him!" 

She  laughed  softly.  "He  was  a  spirit,"  she  said — 
"You  are  a  man." 

"Well,  his  spirit  has  had  a  good  innings  with  you!" 
and,  taking  her  hand,  he  drew  it  within  his  arm — 
"I  bear  his  name,  and  it's  tune  I  came  in  some- 
where!" 

She  laughed  again,  a  trifle  nervously. 

"You  think  so?  But  you  do  come  in!  You  are 
here  with  me  now!" 

He  bent  his  eyes  upon  her  with  an  ardour  he  did 
not  attempt  to  conceal,  and  her  heart  leaped  within 
her — a  warmth  like  fire  ran  swiftly  through  her 
veins.  He  heard  her  sigh, — he  saw  her  tremble  be- 
neath his  gaze.  There  was  an  elf-like  fascination 
about  her  child-like  face  and  figure  as  she  moved 
glidingly  beside  him — a  "belle  dame  sans  merci" 
charm  which  roused  the  strongly  amorous  side  of 
his  nature.  He  quickened  his  steps  a  little  as  he  led 
her  down  a  sloping  path,  shut  in  on  either  side  by 
tall  trees,  where  there  was  a  seat  placed  invitingly 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     301 

in  the  deepest  shadow  and  where  the  dim  uplifted 
moon  cast  but  the  faintest  glimmer,  just  sufficiently 
to  make  the  darkness  visible. 

"Shall  we  stay  here  a  little  while?"  he  said,  in  a 
low  tone. 

She  made  no  reply.  Something  vaguely  sweet  and 
irresistible  overpowered  her, — she  was  barely  con- 
scious of  herself,  or  of  anything,  save  that  "Amadis 
de  Jocelyn"  was  beside  her.  She  had  lived  so  long 
in  her  dream  of  the  old  French  knight,  whose  writ- 
ten thoughts  and  confessions  had  influenced  her  im- 
agination and  swayed  her  mind  since  childhood, 
that  she  could  not  detach  herself  from  the  idealistic 
conception  she  had  formed  of  his  character, — and  to 
her  the  sixteenth-century  "Amadis"  had  become  em- 
bodied in  this  modern  man  of  brilliant  but  erratic 
genius,  who,  if  the  truth  were  told,  had  nothing 
idealistic  about  him  but  his  art,  which  in  itself  was 
more  the  outcome  of  emotionalism  than  conviction. 
He  drew  her  gently  down  beside  him,  feeling  her 
quiver  like  a  leaf  touched  by  the  wind,  and  his 
own  heart  began  to  beat  with  a  pleasurable  thrill. 
The  silence  around  them  seemed  waiting  for  speech, 
but  none  came.  It  was  one  of  those  tense  moments 
on  which  sometimes  hangs  the  happiness  or  the  mis- 
ery of  a  lifetime — a  stray  thread  from  the  web  of 
Chance,  which  may  be  woven  into  a  smooth  pattern 
or  knotted  into  a  cruel  tangle, — a  freakish  circum- 
stance in  which  the  human  beings  most  concerned 
are  helplessly  involved  without  any  conscious  pre- 
monition of  impending  fate.  Suddenly,  yielding  to 
a  passionate  impulse,  he  caught  her  close  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her. 

"Forgive  me!"  he  whispered — "I  could  not  help 
it!" 

She  put  him  gently  back  from  her  with  two  little 
hands  that  caressed  rather  than  repulsed  him,  and 


302  INNOCENT 

gazed  at  him  with  startled,  tender  eyes  in  which  a 
new  and  wonderful  radiance  shone, — while  he  in  self- 
confident  audacity  still  held  her  in  his  embrace. 

"You  are  not  angry?"  he  went  on,  in  quick,  soft 
accents.  "No!  Why  should  you  be?  Why  should 
not  love  come  to  you  as  to  other  women!  Don't 
analyse! — don't  speak!  There  is  nothing  to  be  said 
— we  know  all!" 

Silently  she  clung  to  him,  yielding  more  and  more 
to  the  sensation  of  exquisite  joy  that  poured  through 
her  whole  being  like  sunlight — her  heart  beat  with 
new  and  keener  life, — the  warm  kindling  blood 
burned  her  cheeks  like  the  breath  of  a  hot  wind — 
and  her  whole  soul  rose  to  meet  and  greet  what  she 
in  her  poor  credulousness  welcomed  as  the  crown 
and  glory  of  existence — love!  Love  was  hers,  she 
though  t-J-at  last! — she  knew  the  great  secret, — the 
long  delight  that  death  itself  could  not  destroy, — 
her  ideal  of  romance  was  realised,  and  Amadis  de 
Jocelyn,  the  brave,  the  true,  the  chivalrous,  the 
strong,  was  her  very  own !  Enchanted  with  the  ease 
of  his  conquest,  he  played  with  her  pretty  hair  as 
with  a  bird's  wing,  and  held  her  against  his  heart, 
sensuously  gratified  to  feel  her  soft  breast  heaving 
with  its  pent-up  emotion,  and  to  hear  her  murmured 
words  of  love  confessed. 

"How  I  have  wished  and  prayed  that  you  might 
love  me!"  she  said,  raising  her  dewy  eyes  to  his  in 
the  darkness.  "Is  it  good  when  God  grants  one's 
prayers?  I  am  almost  afraid!  My  Amadis!  It  is 
a  dream  come  true!" 

He  was  amused  at  her  fidelity  to  the  romance 
which  surrounded  his  name. 

"Dear  child,  I  am  not  a  'knight  of  old' — don't 
think  it!"  he  said.  "You  mustn't  run  away  with 
that  idea  and  make  me  a  kind  of  sixteenth-century 
sentimentalist.  I  couldn't  live  up  to  it!" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     303 

"You  are  more  than  a  knight  of  old,"  she  answered, 
proudly — "You  are  a  great  genius!" 

He  was  embarrassed  by  her  simple  praise. 

"No,"  he  answered — "Not  even  that — sweet  soul 
as  you  are! — not  even  that!  You  think  I  am — but 
you  do  not  know.  You  are  a  clever,  imaginative  lit- 
tle girl — and  I  love  to  hear  you  praise  me — but " 

Her  lips  touched  his  shyly  and  sweetly. 

"No  'buts ! '  "  she  said, — "I  shall  always  stop  your 
mouth  if  you  put  a  'but'  against  any  work  you  do!" 

"In  that  way?"  he  asked,  smiling. 

"Yes!    In  that  way." 

"Then  I  shall  put  a  'but'  to  everything!"  he 
declared. 

They  laughed  together  like  children. 

"Where  is  Miss  Leigh  all  this  while?"  he  queried. 

She  started,  awaking  suddenly  to  conventions  and 
commonplaces. 

"Poor  little  godmother!  She  must  be  wondering 
where  I  am!  But  I  did  not  leave  her, — she  left  me 
when  the  Duke  took  charge  of  me — I  lost  sight  of 
her  then." 

"Well,  we  must  go  and  find  her  now" — and  Joce- 
lyn  again  folded  his  arms  closely  round  the  dainty, 
elf-like  figure  in  its  moonlight-blue  draperies.  "In- 
nocent, look  at  me!" 

She  lifted  her  eyes,  and  as  she  met  his,  glowing 
with  the  fervent  fire  of  a  new  passion,  her  cheeks 
grew  hot  and  she  was  thankful  for  the  darkness.  His 
lips  closed  on  hers  in  a  long  kiss. 

"This  is  our  secret!"  he  said — "You  must  not 
speak  of  it  to  anyone." 

"How  could  I  speak  of  it?"  she  asked,  wonder- 
ingly. 

He  let  her  go  from  his  embrace,  and  taking  her 
hand  began  to  walk  slowly  with  her  towards  the 
house. 


304  INNOCENT 

"You  might  do  so,"  he  continued — "And  it 
would  not  be  wise! — neither  for  you  in  your  career, 
nor  for  me  in  mine.  You  are  famous, — your  name 
is  being  talked  of  everywhere — you  must  be  very 
careful.  No  one  must  know  we  are  lovers." 

She  thrilled  at  the  word  "lovers,"  and  her  hand 
trembled  in  his. 

"No  one  shall  know,"  she  said. 

"Not  even  Miss  Leigh,"  he  insisted. 

"If  I  say  'no  one'  of  course  I  mean  'no  one/  "  she 
answered,  gently — "not  even  Miss  Leigh." 

He  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it,  re- 
lieved by  this  assurance.  He  wanted  his  little 
"amour"  to  go  on  without  suspicion  or  interference, 
and  he  felt  instinctively  that  if  this  girl  made  any 
sort  of  a  promise  she  would  fulfil  it. 

"You  can  keep  a  secret  then?"  he  said,  playfully — 
"Unlike  most  women!" 

She  looked  up  at  him,  smiling. 

"Do  men  keep  secrets  better?"  she  asked.  "I  think 
not!  Will  you,  for  instance,  keep  mine?" 

"Yours?"  And  for  a  moment  he  was  puzzled, 
being  a  man  who  thought  chiefly  of  himself  and  his 
own  pleasure  for  the  moment.  "What  is  your 
secret?" 

She  laughed.  "Oh,  'Sieur  Amadis'!  You  pre- 
tend not  to  know!  Is  it  not  the  same  as  yours? 
You  must  not  tell  anybody  that  I — I " 

He  understood — and  pressed  hard  the  little  hand 
he  held. 

"That  you — well?  Go  on!  I  must  not  tell 
anybody — what?" 

"That  I  love  you!"  she  said,  in  a  tone  so  grave 
and  sweet  and  angelically  tender,  that  for  a  second 
he  was  smitten  with  a  sudden  sense  of  shame. 

Was  it  right  to  steal  all  this  unspoilt  treasure  of 
love  from  a  heart  so  warm  and  susceptible?  Was  it 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     305 

fair  to  enter  such  an  ivory  castle  of  dreams  and  break 
open  all  the  "magic  casements  opening  on  the  foam, 
Of  perilous  seas  in  fairy  lands  forlorn"?  He  was 
silent,  having  no  response  to  give  to  the  simple 
ardour  of  her  utterance.  What  he  felt  for  her  was 
what  all  men  feel  for  each  woman  who  in  turn  at- 
tracts their  wandering  fancies — the  desire  of  con- 
quest and  possession.  He  was  moved  to  this  desire 
by  the  irritating  fact  that  this  girl  had  startled  an 
apathetic  public  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  by 
the  display  of  her  genius  in  the  short  space  of  two 
years — whereas  he  had  been  more  than  fifteen  years 
intermittently  at  work  without  securing  any  such 
fame.  To  throw  the  lasso  of  Love  round  the  flying 
Pegasus  on  which  she  rode  so  lightly  and  securely, 
would  be  an  excitement  and  amusement  which  he 
was  not  inclined  to  forgo — a  triumph  worth  attain- 
ing. But  love  such  as  she  imagined  love  to  be,  was 
not  in  his  nature — he  conceived  of  it  merely  as  a 
powerful  physical  attraction  which  exerted  its  influ- 
ence between  two  persons  of  opposite  sexes  and 
lasted  for  a  certain  time — then  waned  and  wore  off — • 
and  he  recognised  marriage  as  a  legal  device  to  safe- 
guard a  woman  when  the  inevitable  indifference  and 
coldness  of  her  mate  set  in,  making  him  no  longer 
a  lover,  but  a  household  companion  of  habit  and 
circumstance,  lawfully  bound  to  pay  for  the  edu- 
cation of  children  and  the  necessary  expenses  of 
living.  In  his  inmost  consciousness  he  knew  very 
well  that  Innocent  was  not  of  the  ordinary  feminine 
mould — she  had  visions  of  the  high  and  unattain- 
able, and  her  ideals  of  life  were  of  that  pure  and 
transcendental  quality  which  belongs  to  finer  ele- 
ments unseen.  The  carnal  mind  can  never  compre- 
hend spirituality, — nevertheless,  Jocelyn  was  a  man 
cultured  and  clever  enough  to  feel  that  though  he 
himself  could  not  enter,  and  did  not  even  care  to 


306  INNOCENT 

enter  the  uplifted  spheres  of  thought,  this  strange 
child  with  a  gift  of  the  gods  in  her  brain,  already 
dwelt  in  them,  serenely  unconscious  of  any  lower 
plane.  And  she  loved  him! — and  he  would,  on  that 
ground  of  love,  teach  her  many  things  she  had  never 
known — he  would  widen  her  outlook, — warm  her 
senses — increase  her  perceptions — train  her  like  a 
wild  rose  on  the  iron  trellis  of  his  experience — while 
thus  to  instruct  an  unworldly  soul  in  worldliness 
would  be  for  him  an  interesting  and  pleasurable 
pastime. 

"And  I  can  make  her  happy" — was  his  additional 
thought — "in  the  only  way  a  woman  is  ever  happy 
—for  a  little  while!"" 

All  this  ran  through  his  mind  as  he  held  her  hand 
a  moment  longer,  till  the  convincing  music  of  the 
band  and  the  brilliant  lights  of  the  house  warned 
them  to  break  away  from  each  other. 

"We  had  better  go  straight  to  the  ball-room  and 
dance  in,"  he  said.  "No  one  will  have  missed  us 
long.  We've  only  been  absent  about  a  quarter  of 
an  hour." 

"So  much  in  such  a  little  time!"  she  said,  softly. 

He  smiled,  answering  the  adoring  look  of  her  eyes 
with  his  own  amorous  glance,  and  in  another  few 
seconds  they  were  part  of  the  brilliant  whirl  of 
dancers  now  crowding  the  ball-room  and  swinging 
round  in  a  blaze  of  colour  and  beauty  to  the  some- 
what hackneyed  strains  of  the  "Friihlings  Reigen." 
And  as  they  floated  and  flew,  the  delight  of  their 
attractiveness  to  each  other  drew  them  closer  to- 
gether till  the  sense  of  separateness  seemed  lost  and 
whelmed  in  a  magnetic  force  of  mutual  comprehen- 
sion. 

When  this  waltz  was  finished  she  was  claimed  by 
many  more  partners,  and  danced  till  she  was  weary, 
— then,  between  two  "extras,"  she  went  in  search  of 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     307 

Miss  Leigh,  whom  she  found  sitting  patiently  in 
one  of  the  great  drawing-rooms,  looking  somewhat 
pale  and  tired. 

"Oh,  my  godmother!"  she  exclaimed,  running  up 
to  her.  "I  had  forgotten  how  late  it  is  getting!" 

Miss  Lavinia  smiled  cheerfully. 

"Never  mind,  child!"  she  said.  "You  are  young 
and  ought  to  enjoy  yourself.  I  am  old,  and  hardly 
fit  for  these  late  assemblies — and  how  very  late  they 
are  too!  When  I  was  a  girl  we  never  stayed  be- 
yond midnight " 

"And  is  it  midnight  now?"  asked  Innocent, 
amazed,  turning  to  her  partner,  a  young  scion  of 
the  aristocracy,  who  looked  as  if  he  had  not  been  to 
bed  for  a  week. 

He  smiled  simperingly,  and  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"It's  nearly  two  o'clock,"  he  said.  "In  fact  it's  to- 
morrow morning!" 

Just  then  Jocelyn  came  up. 

"Are  you  going?"  he  inquired.  "Well,  perhaps  it's 
time!  May  I  see  you  to  your  carriage?" 

Miss  Leigh  gratefully  accepted  this  suggestion — 
and  Innocent,  smiling  her  "good-night"  to  partners 
whom  she  had  disappointed,  walked  with  her  through 
the  long  vista  of  rooms,  Jocelyn  leading  the  way. 
They>  soon  ran  the  gauntlet  of  the  ladies'  cloak-room 
and  the  waiting  mob  of  footmen  and  chauffeurs  that 
lined  the  long  passage  leading  to  the  entrance-hall, 
and  Jocelyn,  going  out  into  the  street  succeeded  in 
finding  their  modest  little  hired  motor-brougham  and 
assisting  them  into  it. 

"Good-night,  Miss  Leigh!"  he  said,  leaning  on 
the  door  of  the  vehicle  and  smiling  at  them  through 
the  open  window — "Good-night,  Miss  Armitage!  I 
hope  you  are  not  very  tired?" 

"I  am  not  tired  at  all!"  she  answered,  with  a  thrill 


308  INNOCENT 

of  joy  in  her  voice  like  the  note  of  a  sweet  bird.  "I 
have  been  so  very  happy!" 

He  smiled.  His  face  was  pale  and  looked  un- 
usually handsome, — she  stretched  one  little  hand  out 
to  him. 

"Good-night,  'Sieur  AmadisP ' 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  it. 

"Good-night!" 

The  motor  began  to  move — another  moment,  and 
they  were  off.  Innocent  sank  back  in  the  brougham 
with  a  sigh. 

"You  are  tired,  child! — you  must  be!"  said  Miss 
Leigh. 

"No,  godmother  mine!  That  sigh  was  one  of 
pleasure.  It  has  been  a  most  wonderful  evening! — 
wonderful!" 

"It  was  certainly  very  brilliant,"  agreed  Miss 
Leigh.  "And  I'm  glad  you  were  made  so  much  of, 
my  dear!  That  was  as  it  ought  to  be.  Lord  Blythe 
told  me  he  had  seldom  met  so  charming  a  girl!" 

Innocent  sat  up  suddenly.  "Lord  Blythe?  Do 
you  know  him?" 

"No,  I  cannot  say  I  really  know  him,"  replied 
Miss  Leigh.  "I've  met  him  several  times — and  his 
wife  too — there  was  some  scandal  about  her  years 
and  years  ago  before  she  was  married — nobody  ever 
knew  exactly  what  it  was,  and  her  people  hushed 
it  up.  I  daresay  it  wasn't  very  much.  Anyhow 
Lord  Blythe  married  her — and  he's  a  very  fine  man 
with  a  great  position.  I  thought  I  saw  you  talking 
to  Lady  Blythe?" 

"Yes" — Innocent  spoke  almost  mechanically — "I 
had  a  few  minutes'  conversation  with  her." 

"She's  very  handsome,"  went  on  Miss  Leigh. 
"She  used  to  be  quite  beautiful.  A  pity  she  has  no 
children." 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     309 

Innocent  was  silent.  The  motor-brougham  glided 
along. 

"You  and  Mr.  Jocelyn  seem  to  get  on  very  well 
together/'  observed  the  old  lady,  presently.  "He 
is  a  very  'taking'  man — but  I  wonder  if  he  is  quite 
sincere?" 

Innocent's  colour  rose, — fortunately  the  interior  of 
the  brougham  was  too  dark  for  her  face  to  be  seen. 

"Why  should  he  not  be?"  she  asked — "Surely  with 
his  great  art,  he  would  be  more  sincere  than  most 
men?" 

"Well,  I  hope  so!"  and  Miss  Leigh's  voice  was  a 
little  tremulous;  "But  artists  are  very  impression- 
able, and  live  so  much  in  a  world  of  their  own  that 
I  sometimes  doubt  whether  they  have  much  under- 
standing or  sympathy  with  the  world  of  other  peo- 
ple! Even  Pierce  Armitage — who  was  very  dear  to 
me — ran  away  with  impressions  like  a  child  with 
toys.  He  would  adore  a  person  one  day — and  hate 
him,  or  her,  the  next ! " — and  she  laughed  softly  and 
compassionately — "He  would  indeed,  poor  fellow! 
He  was  rather  like  Shelley  in  his  likes  and  dislikes 
— you've  read  all  about  your  Shelley  of  course?" 

"Indeed  I  have!"  the  girl  answered, — "A  glorious 
poet ! — but  he  must  have  been  difficult  to  live  with !" 

"Difficult,  if  not  impossible!" — and  the  gentle  old 
lady  took  her  hand  and  held  it  in  a  kind,  motherly 
clasp — "You  are  a  genius  yourself — but  you  are  a 
human  little  creature,  not  above  the  sweet  and  sim- 
ple ways  of  life, — some  of  the  poets  and  artists  were 
and  are  in-human!  Now  Mr.  Jocelyn " 

"He  is  human!"  said  Innocent,  quickly — "I'm  sure 
of  that!" 

"You  are  sure?  Well,  dear,  you  like  him  very 
much  and  you  have  made  a  friend  of  him, — which  is 
quite  natural  considering  the  long  association  you 
have  had  with  his  name — such  a  curious  and  roman- 


310  INNOCENT 

tic  coincidence! — but  I  hope  he  won't  disappoint 
you." 

Innocent  laughed,  happily. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  you  dear  little  godmother!"  she 
said — "I  don't  expect  anything  of  him,  so  no  disap- 
pointment is  possible!  Here  we  are!" 

The  brougham  stopped  and  they  alighted.  Open- 
ing the  house-door  with  a  latch-key  they  entered, 
and  pausing  one  moment  in  the  drawing-room,  where 
the  lights  had  been  left  burning  for  their  return,  Miss 
Leigh  took  Innocent  tenderly  by  the  arm  and  pointed 
to  the  portrait  on  the  harpsichord. 

"There  was  a  true  genius!"  she  said — "He  might 
have  been  the  greatest  artist  in  England  to-day  if 
he  had  not  let  his  impressions  and  prejudices  over- 
master his  judgment.  You  know — for  I  have  told 
you  my  story — that  he  loved  me,  or  thought  he  did 
—and  I  loved  him  and  knew  I  did !  There  was  the 
difference  between  us!  He  tired  of  me — all  artists 
tire  of  the  one  face — they  want  dozens! — and  he  lost 
his  head  over  some  woman  whose  name  I  never 
knew.  The  result  must  have  been  fatal  to  his  career, 
for  it  stopped  short  just  when  he  was  succeeding; — 
for  me,  it  only  left  me  resolved  to  be  true  to  his 
memory  till  the  end.  But,  my  child,  it's  a  hard  lot 
to  be  alone  all  one's  days,  with  only  the  remem- 
brance of  a  past  love  to  keep  one's  heart  from  grow- 
ing cold!" 

There  was  a  little  sob  in  her  voice, — Innocent, 
touched  to  the  quick,  kissed  her  tenderly. 

"Why  do  you  talk  like  this  so  sadly  to-night?" 
she  asked — "Has  something  reminded  you  of — of 
him?"  And  she  glanced  half  nervously  towards  the 
portrait. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  old  lady,  simply — "Something 
has  reminded  me — very  much — of  him !  Good-night, 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     311 

dear  little  child!  Keep  your  beautiful  dreams  and 
ideals  as  long  as  you  can!  Sleep  well!" 

She  turned  off  the  lights,  and  they  went  upstairs 
together  to  their  several  rooms. 

Once  alone,  Innocent  flung  off  her  dainty  ball  at- 
tire,— released  her  bright  hair  from  the  pins  that  held 
it  bound  in  rippling  waves  about  her  shapely  head, 
and  slipping  on  a  loose  white  wrapper  sat  down  to 
think.  She  had  to  realise  the  unpleasing  fact  that 
against  her  own  wish  and  will  she  had  become  in- 
volved in  mysteries, — secrets  which  she  dared  not, 
for  the  sake  of  others,  betray.  Her  parentage  could 
not  be  divulged,  because  her  father  was  Pierce  Armi- 
tage,  the  worshipped  memory  of  Miss  Leigh's  heart, 
— while  her  mother,  Lady  Blythe,  occupied  a  high  so- 
cial position  which  must  not  be  assailed.  And  now — 
now,  Amadis  de  Jocelyn  was  her  lover! — yet  no  one 
must  know,  because  he  did  not  wish  it.  For  some 
cause  or  other  which  she  could  not  determine,  he 
insisted  on  secrecy.  So  she  was  meshed  in  nets  of 
others'  weaving,  and  could  not  take  a  step  to  dis- 
entangle herself  and  stand  clear.  Of  her  own  accord 
she  would  have  been  frank  and  open  as  the  daylight, 
— but  from  the  first,  a  froward  fate  appeared  to  have 
taken  delight  in  surrounding  her  with  deceptions  en- 
forced by  the  sins  of  others.  Her  face  burned  as  she 
thought  of  Jocelyn's  passionate  kisses — she  must 
hide  all  that  joy! — it  had  already  become  almost  a 
guilty  secret.  He  was  the  first  man  that  had  ever 
kissed  her  since  her  "Dad"  died, — the  first  that  had 
ever  kissed  her  as  a  lover.  Her  mind  flew  suddenly 
and  capriciously  back  to  Briar  Farm — to  Robin  Clif- 
ford who  had  longed  to  kiss  her,  and  yet  had  re- 
fused to  do  so  unless  she  could  have  loved  him.  She 
had  never  loved  him — no! — and  yet  the  thought 
of  him  just  now  gave  her  a  thrill  of  remorseful  ten- 
derness. She  knew  in  herself  at  last  what  love  could 


312  INNOCENT 

mean, — and  with  that  knowledge  she  realised  what 
Robin  must  have  suffered. 

"To  love  without  return — without  hope!"  she 
mused — "Oh,  it  would  be  torture! — to  me,  death! 
Poor  Robin!" 

Poor  Robin,  indeed!  He  would  not  have  dared 
to  caress  her  with  the  wild  and  tender  audacity  of 
Amadis  de  Jocelyn! 

"My  love!"  she  whispered  to  the  silence. — "My 
love!"  she  repeated,  as  she  knelt  down  to  say  her 
prayers,  sending  the  adored  and  idealised  name  up 
on  vibrations  of  light  to  the  throne  of  the  Most  High, 
• — and  "My  love!"  were  the  last  words  she  murmured 
as  she  nestled  into  her  little  bed,  her  fair  head  on  its 
white  pillow  looking  like  the  head  of  one  of  Botti- 
celli's angels.  Her  own  success, — her  celebrity  as  a 
genius  in  literature, — her  dreams  of  fame — these  now 
were  all  as  naught! — less  than  the  clouds  of  a  night 
or  the  mists  of  a  morning — there  was  nothing  for 
her  in  earth  or  heaven  save  "My  love!" 


CHAPTER  V 

LORD  BLYTHE  was  sitting  alone  in  his  library.  He 
was  accustomed  to  sit  alone,  and  rather  liked  it.  It 
was  the  evening  after  that  of  the  Duchess  of  Dean- 
shire's  reception ;  his  wife  had  gone  to  another  similar 
"crush,"  but  had  graciously  excused  his  attendance, 
for  which  he  was  honestly  grateful.  He  was  old 
enough,  at  sixty-eight,  to  appreciate  the  luxury  of 
peace  and  quietness, — he  had  put  on  an  old  lounge 
coat  and  an  easy  pair  of  slippers,  and  was  thoroughly 
enjoying  himself  in  a  comfortable  arm-chair  with  a 
book  and  a  cigar.  The  book  was  by  "Ena  Armitage" 
— the  cigar,  one  of  a  choice  brand  known  chiefly  to 
fastidious  connoisseurs  of  tobacco.  The  book,  how- 
ever, was  a  powerful  rival  to  the  charm  of  the  fra- 
grant Havana — for  every  now  and  again  he  allowed 
the  cigar  to  die  out  and  had  to  re-light  it,  owing  to 
his  fascinated  absorption  in  the  volume  he  held.  He 
was  an  exceedingly  clever  man — deeply  versed  in 
literature  and  languages,  and  in  his  younger  days 
had  been  a  great  student, — he  had  read  nearly  every 
book  of  note,  and  was  as  familiar  with  the  greatest 
authors  as  with  his  greatest  friends,  so  that  he  was 
well  fitted  to  judge  without  prejudice  the  merits  of 
any  new  aspirant  to  literary  fame.  But  he  was  wholly 
unprepared  for  the  power  and  the  daring  genius 
which  stamped  itself  on  every  page  of  the  new 
writer's  work, — he  almost  forgot,  while  reading, 
whether  it  was  man  or  woman  who  had  given  such 
a,  production  to  the  world,  so  impressed  was  he  by 

313 


314  INNOCENT 

the  masterly  treatment  of  a  simple  subject  made 
beautiful  by  a  scholarly  and  incisive  style.  It  was 
literature  of  the  highest  kind, — and  realising  this 
with  every  sentence  he  perused,  it  was  with  a  shock 
of  surprise  that  he  remembered  the  personality  of 
the  author — the  unobtrusive  girl  who  had  been  the 
"show  animal"  at  Her  Grace  of  Deanshire's  recep- 
tion and  dance. 

"Positively,  I  can  scarcely  believe  it!"  he  ex- 
claimed sotto-voce — "That  child  I  met .  last  night 
actually  wrote  this  amazing  piece  of  work!  It's 
almost  incredible!  A  nice  child  too, — simple  and 
perfectly  natural, — nothing  of  the  blue-stocking 
about  her.  Well,  well!  What  a  career  she'll  make! 
— what  a  name! — that  is,  if  she  takes  care  of  herself 
and  doesn't  fall  in  love,  which  she's  sure  to  do! 
That's  the  worst  of  women — God  occasionally  gives 
them  brains,  but  they've  scarcely  begun  to  use  them 
when  heart  and  sentiment  step  in  and  overthrow  all 
reason.  Now,  we  men " 

He  paused, — thinking.  There  had  been  a  time  in 
his  life — long  ago,  when  he  was  very  young — when 
heart  and  sentiment  had  very  nearly  overthrown 
reason  in  his  own  case — and  sometimes  he  was 
inclined  to  regret  that  such  overthrow  had  been 
averted. 

"For  the  moment  it  is  perhaps  worth  everything 
else!"  he  mused — "But — for  the  moment  only!  The 
ecstasy  does  not  last." 

His  cigar  had  gone  out  again,  and  he  re-lit  it.  The 
clock  on  the  mantelpiece  struck  twelve  with  a  silvery 
clang,  and  almost  at  the  same  instant  he  heard  the 
rustle  of  a  silk  gown  and  a  light  footstep, — the  door 
opened,  and  his  wife  appeared. 

"Are  you  busy?"  she  enquired — "May  I  come  in?" 

He  rose,  with  the  stately  old-fashioned  courtesy 
habitual  to  him. 


"By  all  means  come  in!"  he  said — "You  have 
returned  early?" 

"Yes."  She  loosened  her  rich  evening  cloak,  lined 
with  ermine,  and  let  it  fall  on  the  back  of  the  chair 
in  which  she  seated  herself — "It  was  a  boresome  af- 
fair,— there  were  recitations  and  music  which  I  hate 
— so  I  came  away.  You  are  reading?" 

"Not  now" — and  he  closed  the  volume  on  the  table 
beside  him — "But  I  have  been  reading — that  amaz- 
ing book  by  the  young  girl  we  met  at  the  Deans-hires' 
last  night — Ena  Armitage.  It's  really  a  fine  piece 
of  work." 

She  was  silent. 

"You  didn't  take  to  her,  I'm  afraid?"  he  went  on 
— "Yet  she  seemed  a  charming,  modest  little  per- 
son. Perhaps  she  was  not  quite  what  you  ex- 
pected?" 

Lady  Ely  the  gave  a  sudden  harsh  laugh. 

"You  are  right!  She  certainly  was  not  what  I 
expected!  Is  the  door  well  shut?" 

Surprised  at  her  look  and  manner,  he  went  to  see. 

"The  door  is  quite  closed,"  he  said,  rather  stiffly. 
"One  would  think  we  were  talking  secrets — and  we 
never  do!" 

"No!"  she  rejoined,  looking  at  him  curiously — 
"We  never  do.  We  are  model  husband  and  wife, 
having  nothing  to  conceal!" 

He  took  up  his  cigar  which  he  had  laid  down  for  a 
minute,  and  with  careful  minuteness  flicked  off  the 
ash. 

"You  have  something  to  tell  me,"  he  remarked, 
quietly — "Pray  go  on,  and  don't  let  me  interrupt 
you.  Do  you  object  to  my  smoking?" 

"Not  in  the  least." 

He  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace,  a  tall, 
stately  figure  of  a  man,  and  looked  at  her  expect- 
antly,— she  meanwhile  reclined  in  a  cushioned  chair 


316  INNOCENT 

with  the  folds  of  her  ermine  falling  about  her,  like 
a  queen  of  languorous  luxury. 

"I  suppose/'  she  began — "hardly  anything  in  the 
social  life  of  our  day  would  very  much  surprise  or 
shock  you ?" 

"Very  little,  certainly!"  he  answered,  smiling 
coldly — "I  have  lived  a  long  tune,  and  am  not  easily 
surprised!" 

"Not  even  if  it  concerned  some  one  you  know?" 

His  fine  open  brow  knitted  itself  in  a  momentary 
line  of  puzzled  consideration. 

"Some  one  I  know?"  he  repeated— "Well,  I 
should  certainly  be  very  sorry  to  hear  anything  of 
a  scandalous  nature  connected  with  the  girl  we  saw 
last  night — she  looked  too  young  and  too  inno- 
cent  " 

"Innocent — oh  yes!"  and  Lady  Blythe  again 
laughed  that  harsh  laugh  of  suppressed  hysterical 
excitement — "She  is  innocent  enough!" 

"Pardon!  I  thought  you  were  about  to  speak  of 
her,  as  you  said  she  was  not  what  you  expected " 

He  paused, — startled  by  the  haggard  and  desperate 
expression  of  her  face. 

"Richard,"  she  said — "You  are  a  good  man,  and 
you  hold  very  strong  opinions  about  truth  and  hon- 
our and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  don't  believe  you 
could  ever  understand  badness — real,  downright 
badness — could  you?" 

"Badness?  ...  in  that  child?"  he  exclaimed. 

She  gave  an  impatient,  angry  gesture. 

"Dear  me,  you  are  perfectly  obsessed  by  'that 
child,'  as  you  call  her!"  she  answered — "You  had 
better  know  the  truth  then  at  once, — 'that  child'  is 
my  daughter!" 

"Your  daughter? — your — your " 

The  words  died  on  his  lips — he  staggered  slightly 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    317 

as  though  under  a  sudden  physical  blow,  and  gripped 
the  mantelpiece  behind  him  with  one  hand. 

"Good  God!"  he  half  whispered— "What  do  you 
mean? — you  have  had  no  children " 

"Not  by  you, — no!"  she  said,  with  a  flash  of 
scorn — "Not  in  marriage,  that  church-and-law  form 
of  union! — but  by  love  and  passion — yes!  Stop!— 
do  not  look  at  me  like  that!  I  have  not  been  false 
to  you — I  have  not  betrayed  you!  Your  honour  has 
been  safe  with  me!  It  was  before  I  met  you  that 
this  thing  happened." 

He  stood  rigid  and  very  pale. 

"Before  you  met  me?" 

"Yes.  I  was  a  silly,  romantic,  headstrong  girl, — 
my  parents  were  compelled  to  go  abroad,  and  I  was 
left  in  the  charge  of  one  of  my  mother's  society 
friends-ya  thoroughly  worldly,  unprincipled  woman 
whose  life  was  made  up  of  intrigue  and  gambling. 
And  I  ran  away  with  a  man — Pierce  Armitage " 

"Pierce  Armitage!" 

The  name  broke  from  him  like  a  cry  of  agony. 

"Yes — Pierce  Armitage.     Did  you  know  him?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  eyes  in  which  there  was  a 
strange  horror. 

"Know  him?    He  was  my  best  friend!" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  a  slight  weary 
smile  parted  her  lips. 

"Well,  you  never  told  me, — I  have  never  heard 
you  mention  his  name.  But  the  world  is  a  small 
place! — and  when  I  was  a  girl  he  was  beginning  to 
be  known  by  a  good  many  people.  Anyhow,  he 
threw  up  everything  in  the  way  of  his  art  and  work, 
and  ran  away  with  me.  I  went  quite  willingly — I 
took  a  maid  whom  we  bribed, — we  pretended  we  were 
married,  and  we  had  a  charming  time  together — a 
time  of  real  romance,  till  he  began  to  get  tired  and 
want  change — all  men  are  like  that!  Then  he  be- 


318  INNOCENT 

came  a  bore  with  a  bad  temper.  He  certainly  be- 
haved very  well  when  he  knew  the  child  was  coming, 
and  offered  to  marry  me  in  real  earnest — but  I  re- 
fused." 

"You  refused!"  Lord  Blythe  echoed  the  words  in 
a  kind  of  stupefied  wonderment. 

"Of  course  I  did.  He  was  quite  poor — and  I 
should  have  been  miserable  running  about  the  world 
with  a  man  who  depended  on  art  for  a  living.  Be- 
sides he  was  ceasing  to  be  a  lover — and  as  a  husband 
he  would  have  been  insupportable.  We  managed 
everything  very  well — my  own  people  were  all  in 
India — and  my  mother's  friend,  if  she  guessed  my 
affair,  said  nothing  about  it, — wisely  enough  for  her 
own  sake! — so  that  when  my  tune  came  I  was  able 
to  go  away  on  an  easy  pretext  and  get  it  all  over 
secretly.  Pierce  came  and  stayed  in  a  hotel  close 
at  hand — he  was  rather  in  a  fright  lest  I  should  die! 
— it  would  have  been  such  an  awkward  business  for 
him! — however,  all  went  well,  and  when  I  had  quite 
recovered  he  took  the  child  away  from  me,  and  left 
it  at  an  old  farmhouse  he  had  once  made  a  drawing 
of,  saying  he  would  call  back  for  it — as  if  it  were  a 
parcel!"  She  laughed  lightly.  "He  wrote  and  told 
me  what  he  had  done  and  gave  me  the  address  of 
the  farm — then  he  went  abroad,  and  I  never  heard 
of  him  again " 

"He  died,"  interposed  Lord  Blythe,  slowly — "He 
died — alone  and  very  poor " 

"So  I  was  told,"  she  rejoined,  indifferently — "Oh 
yes !  I  see  you  look  at  me  as  if  you  thought  I  had  no 
heart!  Perhaps  I  have  not, — I  used  to  have  some- 
thing like  one, — your  friend  Armitage  killed  it  in  me. 
Anyhow,  I  knew  the  child  had  been  adopted  by  the 
farm  people  as  their  own,  and  I  took  no  further 
trouble.  My  parents  came  home  from  India  to  in- 
herit an  unexpected  fortune,  and  they  took  me 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    319 

about  with  them  a  great  deal — they  were  never  told 
of  my  romantic  escapade! — then  I  met  you — and 
you  married  me." 

A  sigh  broke  from  him,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"You  are  sorry  you  did,  I  suppose!"  she  went  on 
in  a  quick,  reckless  way — "Anyhow,  I  tried  to  do  my 
duty.  When  I  heard  by  chance  that  the  old  farmer 
who  had  taken  care  of  the  child  was  dead,  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  go  and  see  what  she  was  like.  I 
found  her,  and  offered  to  adopt  her — but  she 
wouldn't  hear  of  it — so  I  let  her  be." 

Lord  Blythe  moved  a  little  from  his  statuesque 
attitude  of  attention. 

"You  told  her  you  were  her  mother?" 

"I  did." 

"And  offered  to  'adopt'  your  own  child?" 

She  gave  an  airy  gesture. 

"It  was  the  only  thing  to  do!  One  cannot  make 
a  social  scandal." 

"And  she  refused?" 

"She  refused." 

"I  admire  her  for  it,"  said  Lord  Blythe,  calmly. 

She  shot  an  angry  glance  at  him.  He  went  on  in 
cold,  deliberate  accents. 

"You  were  unprepared  for  the  strange  compensa- 
tion you  have  received? — the  sudden  fame  of  your 
deserted  daughter?" 

Her  hands  clasped  and '  unclasped  themselves 
nervously. 

"I  knew  nothing  of  it!  Armitage  is  not  an  un- 
common name,  and  I  did  not  connect  it  with  her. 
She  has  no  right  to  wear  it." 

"If  her  father  were  alive  he  would  be  proud  that 
she  wears  it! — moreover  he  would  give  her  the  right 
to  wear  it,  and  would  make  it  legal,"  said  Lord 
Blythe  sternly — "Out  of  old  memory  I  can  say  that 
for  him !  You  recognised  each  other  at  once,  I  sup- 


320  INNOCENT 

pose,  when  I  presented  her  to  you  at  the  Duchess's 
reception?" 

"Of  course  we  did!"  retorted  his  wife — "You  your- 
self saw  that  I  was  rather  taken  aback, — it  was  diffi- 
cult to  conceal  our  mutual  astonishment " 

"It  must  have  been ! "  and  a  thin  ironic  smile  hov- 
ered on  his  lips — "And  you  carried  it  off  well!  But 
— the  poor  child! — what  an  ordeal  for  her!  You 
can  hardly  have  felt  it  so  keenly,  being  seasoned  to 
hypocrisy  for  so  many  years!" 

Her  eyes  flashed  up  at  him  indignantly.  He  raised 
his  hand  with  a  warning  gesture. 

"Permit  me  to  speak,  Maude!  You  can  scarcely 
wonder  that  I  am — well! — a  little  shaken  and  be- 
wildered by  the  confession  you  have  made, — the 
secret  you  have — after  years  of  marriage— suddenly 
divulged.  You  suggested — at  the  beginning  of  this 
interview — that  perhaps  there  was  nothing  in  the 
social  life  of  our  day  that  would  very  much  shock  or 
surprise  me— and  I  answered  you  that  I  was  not 
easily  surprised — but — I  was  thinking  of  others, — 

it  did  not  occur  to  me  that — that  my  own  wife " 

he  paused,  steadying  his  voice, — then  continued — 
"that  my  own  wife's  honour  was  involved  in  the 

matter "  he  paused  again.  "Sentiment  is  of 

course  out  of  place — nobody  is  supposed  to  feel  any- 
thing nowadays — or  to  suffer — or  to  break  one's 
heart,  as  the  phrase  goes, — that  would  be  considered 
abnormal,  or  bad  form, — but  I  had  the  idea — a  fool- 
ish one,  no  doubt! — that  though  you  may  not  have 
married  me  for  love  on  your  own  part,  you  did  so 
because  you  recognised  the  love, — the  truth — the 
admiration  and  respect — on  mine.  I  was  at  any  rate 
happy  in  believing  you  did! — I  never  dreamed  you 
married  me  for  the  sake  of  convenience! — to  kill  the 
memory  of  a  scandal,  and  establish  a  safe  posi- 
tion  " 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     321 

She  moved  restlessly  and  gathered  her  ermine 
cloak  about  her  as  though  to  rise  and  go. 

"One  moment!"  he  went  on — "After  what  you 
have  told  me  I  hope  you  see  clearly  that  it  is  im- 
possible we  can  live  together  under  the  same  roof 
again.  If  you  could  endure  it,  7  could  not!" 

She  sprang  up,  pale  and  excited. 

"What?  You  mean  to  make  trouble?  I,  who  have 
kept  my  own  counsel  all  these  years,  am  to  be  dis- 
graced because  I  have  at  last  confided  in  you? 
You  will  scandalise  society — you  will  separate  from 
me " 

She  stopped,  half  choked  by  a  rising  paroxysm  of 
rage. 

He  looked  at  her  as  he  might  have  looked  at  some 
small  angry  animal. 

"I  shall  make  no  trouble,"  he  answered,  quietly — 
"and  I  shall  not  scandalise  society.  But  I  cannot 
live  with  you.  I  will  go  away  at  once  on  some  con- 
venient excuse — abroad — anywhere — and  you  can 
say  whatever  you  please  of  my  prolonged  absence. 
If  I  could  be  of  any  use  or  protection  to  the  girl  I 
saw  last  night — the  daughter  of  my  friend  Pierce 
Armitage — I  would  stay,  but  circumstances  render 
any  such  service  from  me  impossible.  Besides,  she 
needs  no  one  to  assist  her — she  has  made  a  position 
for  herself — a  position  more  enviable  than  yours  or 
mine.  You  have  that  to  think  about  by  way  of — 
consolation? — or  reproach?" 

She  stood  drawn  up  to  her  full  height,  looking  at 
him. 

"You  cannot  forgive  me,  then?"  she  said. 

He  shuddered. 

"Forgive  you!  Is  there  a  man  who  could  forgive 
twenty  years  of  deliberate  deception  from  the  wife 
he  thought  the  soul  of  honour?  Maude,  Maude! 
We  live  in  lax  times  truly,  when  men  and  women 


322  INNOCENT 

laugh  at  principle  and  good  faith,  and  deal  with  each 
other  less  honestly  than  the  beasts  of  the  field, — but 
for  me  there  is  a  limit! — a  limit  you  have  passed! 
I  think  I  could  pardon  your  wrong  to  me  more  read- 
ily than  I  can  pardon  your  callous  desertion  of  the 
child  you  brought  into  the  world — your  lack  of 
womanliness — motherliness ! — your  deliberate  re- 
fusal to  give  Pierce  Armitage  the  chance  of  righting 
the  wrong  he  had  committed  in  a  headstrong,  heart- 
strong  rush  of  thoughtless  passion! — he  would  have 
righted  it,  I  know,  and  been  a  loyal  husband  to  you, 
and  a  good  father  to  his  child.  For  whatever  his 
faults  were  he  was  neither  callous  nor  brutal.  You 
prevented  him  from  doing  this, — you  were  tired  of 
him — your  so-called  'love'  for  him  was  a  mere  selfish 
caprice  of  the  moment — and  you  preferred  deceit 
and  a  rich  marriage  to  the  simple  duty  of  a  woman ! 
Well! — you  may  find  excuses  for  yourself, — I  cannot 
find  them  for  you!  I  could  not  remain  by  your  side 
as  a  husband  and  run  the  risk  of  coming  constantly 
in  contact,  as  we  did  last  night,  with  that  innocent 
girl,  placed  as  she  is,  in  a  situation  of  so  much  diffi- 
culty, by  the  sins  of  her  parents — her  mother,  my 
wife! — her  father,  my  dead  friend!  The  position  is, 
and  would  be  untenable!" 

Still  she  stood,  looking  at  him. 

"Have  you  done?"  she  asked. 

He  met  her  fixed  gaze,  coldly. 

"I  have.  I  have  said  all  I  wish  to  say.  So  far 
as  I  am  concerned  the  incident  is  closed.  I  will  only 
bid  you  good-night — and  farewell!" 

"Good-night — and  farewell!"  she  repeated,  with 
a  mocking  drawl, — then  she  suddenly  burst  into  a 
fit  of  shrill  laughter.  "Oh  dear,  oh  dear!"  she  cried, 
between  little  screams  of  hysterical  mirth — "You  are 
so  very  funny,  you  know!  Like — what's-his-name? 
— Marius  in  the  ruins  of  Carthage! — or  one  of  those 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    323 

antique  classical  bores  with  their  household  gods 
broken  around  them !  You — you  ought  to  have  lived 
in  their  days! — you  are  so  terribly  behind  the  times!" 
She  laughed  recklessly  again.  "We  don't  do  the 
Marius  and  Carthage  business  now — life's  too  full 
and  too  short!  Really,  Richard,  I'm  afraid  you're 
getting  very  old! — poor  dear! — past  sixty  I  know! — 
and  you're  quite  prehistoric  in  some  of  your  fancies! 
— 'Good-night!' — er — 'and  farewell!'  Sounds  so 
stagey,  doesn't  it!"  She  wiped  the  spasmodic  tears 
of  mirth  from  her  eyes,  and  still  shaking  with  laugh- 
ter gathered  up  her  rich  ermine  wrap  on  one  white, 
jewelled  arm.  "Womanliness — motherliness ! — good 
Lord,  deliver  us! — I  never  thought  you  likely  to 
preach  at  me — if  I  had  I  wouldn't  have  told  you 
anything!  I  took  you  for  a  sensible  man  of  the 
world — but  you  are  only  a  stupid  old-fashioned  thing 
after  all!  Good-night! — and  farewell!" 

She  performed  the  taunting  travesty  of  an  elabo- 
rate Court  curtsey  and  passed  him — a  handsome, 
gleaming  vision  of  satins,  laces  and  glittering  jewels 
— and  opening  the  door  with  some  noise  and  empha- 
sis, she  turned  her  head  gracefully  over  her  shoul- 
der. Unkind  laughter  still  lit  up  her  face  and  hard, 
brilliant  eyes. 

"Good-night! — farewell!"  she  said  again,  and  was 
gone. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  inert  where  she  left  him — 
then  sinking  into  a  chair  he  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands.  So  he  remained  for  some  time— silently 
wrestling  with  himself  and  his  own  emotions.  He 
had  to  realise  that  at  an  age  when  he  might  naturally 
have  looked  for  a  tranquil  home  life — a  life  tended 
and  soothed  into  its  natural  decline  by  the  care  and 
devotion  of  the  wife  he  had  undemonstratively  but 
most  tenderly  loved,  he  was  suddenly  cast  adrift  like 
the  hulk  of  an  old  battleship  broken  from  its  moor- 


324  INNOCENT      v 

ings,  with  nothing  but  solitude  and  darkness  closing 
in  upon  his  latter  days.  Then  he  thought  of  the 
girl, — his  wife's  child — the  child  too  of  his  college 
chum  and  dearest  friend, — he  saw,  impressed  like  a 
picture  on  the  cells  of  his  brain,  her  fair  young  face, 
pathetic  eyes  and  sweet  intelligence  of  expression, — 
he  remembered  how  modestly  she  wore  her  sudden 
fame,  as  a  child  might  wear  a  wild  flower,— and, 
placed  by  her  parentage  in  a  difficulty  for  which  she 
was  not  responsible,  she  must  have  suffered  con- 
siderable pain  and  sorrow. 

"I  will  go  and  see  her  to-morrow,"  he  said  to 
himself — "It  will  be  better  for  her  to  know  that  I 
have  heard  all  her  sad  little  history — then — if  she 
ever  wants  a  friend  she  can  come  to  me  without  fear. 
Ah! — if  only  she  were  my  daughter!" 

He  sighed, — his  handsome  old  head  drooped, — he 
had  longed  for  children  and  the  boon  had  been  de- 
nied. 

"If  she  were  my  daughter,"  he  repeated,  slowly — 
"I  should  be  a  proud  man  instead  of  a  sorrowful 
one!" 

He  turned  off  the  lights  in  the  library  and  went 
upstairs  to  his  bedroom.  Outside  his  wife's  door  he 
paused  a  moment,  thinking  he  heard  a  sound, — but 
all  was  silent.  Imagining  that  he  probably  would 
not  sleep  he  placed  a  book  near  his  bedside — but 
nature  was  kind  to  his  age  and  temperament,  and 
after  about  an  hour  of  wakefulness  and  sad  per- 
plexity, all  ruffling  care  was  gradually  smoothed 
away  from  his  mind,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep  and 
dreamless  slumber. 

Meanwhile  Lady  Blythe  had  been  disrobed  by  a 
drowsy  maid  whom  she  sharply  reproached  for  being 
sleepy  when  she  ought  to  have  been  wide  awake, 
though  it  was  long  past  midnight, — and  dismissing 
the  girl  at  last,  she  sat  alone  before  her  mirror,  think- 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    325 

ing  with  some  pettishness  of  the  interview  she  had 
just  had  with  her  husband. 

"Old  fool!"  she  soliloquised — "He  ought  to  know 
better  than  to  play  the  tragic-sentimental  with  me 
at  his  time  of  life!  I  thought  he  would  accept  the 
situation  reasonably  and  help  me  to  tackle  it.  Of 
course  it  will  be  simply  abominable  if  I  am  to  meet 
that  girl  at  every  big  society  function — I  don't  know 
what  I  shall  do  about  it!  Why  didn't  she  stay  in 
her  old  farm-house! — who  could  ever  have  imagined 
her  becoming  famous!  I  shall  go  abroad,  I  think — 
that  will  be  the  best  thing  to  do.  If  Blythe  leaves 
me  as  he  threatens,  I  shall  certainly  not  stay  here  by 
myself  to  face  the  music!  Besides,  who  knows? — 
the  girl  herself  may  'round'  on  me  when  her  head 
gets  a  little  more  swelled  with  success.  Such  a 
horrid  bore! — I  wish  I  had  never  seen  Pierce 
Armitage!" 

Even  as  she  thought  of  him  the  vision  came  back 
to  her  of  the  handsome  face  and  passionate  eyes  of 
her  former  lover, — again  she  saw  the  romantic  little 
village  by  the  sea  where  they  had  dwelt  together  as 
in  another  Eden, — she  remembered  how  he  would 
hurry  up  from  the  shore  bringing  with  him  the 
sketch  he  had  been  working  at,  eager  for  her  eyes 
to  look  at  it,  thrilling  at  her  praise,  and  pouring  out 
upon  her  such  tender  words  and  caresses  such  as  she 
had  never  known  since  those  wild  and  ardent  days! 
A  slight  shiver  ran  through  her — something  like  a 
pang  of  remorse  stung  her  hardened  spirit. 

"And  the  child,"  she  murmured — "The  child — 
it  clung  to  me  and  I  kissed  it! — it  was  a  dear  little 
thing!" 

She  glanced  about  her  nervously — the  room 
seemed  full  of  wandering  shadows. 

"I  must  sleep!"  she  thought — "I  am  worried  and 
out  of  sorts — I  must  sleep  and  forget " 


326  INNOCENT 

She  took  out  of  a  drawer  in  her  dressing-table  a 
case  of  medicinal  cachets  marked  "Veronal." 

"One  or  two  more  or  less  will  not  hurt  me,"  she 
said,  with  a  pale,  forced  smile  at  herself  in  the  mir- 
ror— "I  am  accustomed  to  it — and  I  must  have  a 
good  long  sleep!" 


******* 
****** 
***** 


She  had  her  way.  Morning  came, — and  she  was 
still  sleeping.  Noon — and  nothing  could  waken  her. 
Doctors,  hastily  summoned,  did  their  best  to  rouse 
her  to  that  life  which  with  all  its  pains  and  possi- 
bilities still  throbbed  in  the  world  around  her — but 
their  efforts  were  vain. 

"Suicide?"  whispered  one. 

"Oh  no!  Mere  accident! — an  overdose  of  veronal 
— some  carelessness — quite  a  common  occurrence. 
Nothing  to  be  done!" 

No! — nothing  to  be  done!  Her  slumber  had 
deepened  into  that  strange  stillness  which  we  call 
death, — and  her  husband,  a  statuesque  and  rigid  fig- 
ure, gazed  on  her  quiet  body  with  tearless  eyes. 

"Good-night!"  he  whispered  to  the  heavy  silence 
—"Good-night!  Farewell!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

ONE  of  the  advantages  or  disadvantages  of  the  way 
in  which  we  live  in  these  modern  days  is  that  we  are 
ceasing  to  feel.  That  is  to  say  we  do  not  permit 
ourselves  to  be  affected  by  either  death  or  misfor- 
tune, provided  these  natural  calamities  leave  our 
own  persons  unscathed.  We  are  beginning  not  to 
understand  emotion  except  as  a  phase  of  bad  man- 
ners, and  we  cultivate  an  apathetic,  soulless  indiffer- 
ence to  events  of  great  moment  whether  triumphant 
or  tragic,  whenever  they  do  not  involve  our  own 
well-being  and  creature  comforts.  Whole  boat-loads 
of  fishermen  may  go  forth  to  their  doom  hi  the  teeth 
of  a  gale  without  moving  us  to  pity  so  long  as  we 
have  our  well-fried  sole  or  grilled  cod  for  breakfast, 
— and  even  such  appalling  disasters  as  the  wicked  as- 
sassination of  hapless  monarchs,  or  the  wrecks  of 
palatial  ocean-liners  with  more  than  a  thousand  hu- 
man beings  all  whelmed  at  once  in  the  pitiless  depths 
of  the  sea,  leave  us  cold,  save  for  the  uplifting  of  our 
eyes  and  shoulders  during  an  hour  or  so, — an  expres- 
sion of  slight  shock,  followed  by  forgetfulness.  Air- 
men, recklessly  braving  the  spaces  of  the  sky,  fall 
headlong,  and  are  smashed  to  mutilated  atoms  every 
month  or  so,  without  rousing  us  to  more  than  a  pass- 
ing comment,  and  a  chorus  of  "How  dreadful!"  from 
simpering  women, — and  the  greatest  and  best  man 
alive  cannot  hope  for  long  remembrance  by  the 
world  at  large  when  he  dies.  Shakespeare  recognised 
this  tendency  in  callous  human  nature  when  he 
made  his  Hamlet  say — 

327 


328  INNOCENT 

"0  heavens!  Die  two  months  ago  and  not  for- 
gotten yet?  Then  there's  hope  a  great  man's  mem- 
ory may  outlive  his  life  half  a  year,  but  by  'r  lady, 
he  must  build  churches  then,  or  else  shall  he  suffer 
not  thinking  on." 

Wives  recover  the  loss  of  their  husbands  with 
amazing  rapidity, — husbands  "get  over"  the  demise 
of  their  wives  with  the  galloping  ease  of  trained 
hunters  leaping  an  accustomed  fence — families  for- 
get their  dead  as  resolutely  as  some  debtors  forget 
their  bills, — and  to  express  sorrow,  pity,  tenderness, 
affection,  or  any  sort  of  "sentiment"  whatever  is  to 
expose  one's  self  to  derision  and  contempt  from  the 
"normal"  modernist  who  cultivates  cynicism  as  a 
fine  art.  Many  of  us  elect  to  live,  each  one,  in  a 
little  back-yard  garden  of  selfish  interests— walled 
round  carefully,  and  guarded  against  possible  in- 
trusion by  uplifted  spikes  of  conventionalism, — the 
door  is  kept  jealously  closed — and  only  now  and  then 
does  some  impulsive  spirit  bolder  than  the  rest,  ven- 
ture to  put  up  a  ladder  and  peep  over  the  wall. 
Shut  in  with  various  favourite  forms  of  hypocrisy 
and  cowardice,  each  little  unit  passes  its  short  life  in 
mistrusting  its  neighbour  unit,  and  death  finds  none 
of  them  wiser,  better  or  nearer  the  utmost  good  than 
when  they  were  first  uselessly  born. 

Among  such  vain  and  unprofitable  atoms  of  life 
Lady  Maude  Blythe  had  been  one  of  the  vainest  and 
most  unprofitable, — though  of  such  "social"  impor- 
tance as  to  be  held  in  respectful  awe  by  tuft-hunters 
and  parasites,  who  feed  on  the  rich  as  the  green-fly 
feeds  on  the  rose.  The  news  of  her  sudden  death 
briefly  chronicled  by  the  fashionable  intelligence  col- 
umns of  the  press  with  the  usual — "We  deeply  re- 
gret"— created  no  very  sorrowful  sensation — a  few 
vapid  people  idly  remarked  to  one  another — "Then 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    329 

her  great  ball  won't  come  off!" — somewhat  as  if 
she  had  retired  into  the  grave  to  avoid  the  trouble 
and  expense  of  the  function.  Cards  inscribed — 
"Sympathy  and  kind  enquiries" — were  left  for  Lord 
Blythe  in  the  care  of  his  dignified  butler,  who  re- 
ceived them  with  the  impassiveness  of  a  Buddhist 
idol  and  deposited  them  all  on  the  orthodox  salver 
in  the  hall — and  a  few  messages  of  "Deeply  shocked 
and  grieved.  Condolences" — by  wires,  not  exceeding 
sixpence  each,  were  despatched  to  the  lonely  wid- 
ower,— but  beyond  these  purely  formal  observances, 
the  handsome  brilliant  society  woman  dropped  out 
of  thought  and  remembrance  as  swiftly  as  a  dead 
leaf  drops  from  a  tree.  She  had  never  been  loved, 
save  by  her  two  deluded  dupes — Pierce  Armitage 
and  her  husband, — no  one  in  the  whole  wide  range 
of  her  social  acquaintance  would  have  ever  thought 
of  feeling  the  slightest  affection  for  her.  The  first 
announcement  of  her  death  appeared  in  an  evening 
paper,  stating  the  cause  to  be  an  accidental  over- 
dose of  veronal  taken  to  procure  sleep,  and  Miss 
Leigh,  seeing  the  paragraph  by  merest  chance,  gave 
a  shocked  exclamation — 

"Innocent!  My  dear! — how  dreadful !  That  poor 
Lady  Blythe  we  saw  the  other  night  is  dead!" 

The  girl  was  standing  by  the  tea-table  just  pour- 
ing out  a  cup  of  tea  for  Miss  Leigh — she  started  so 
nervously  that  the  cup  almost  fell  from  her  hand. 

"Dead!"  she  repeated,  in  a  low,  stifled  voice. 
"Lady  Blythe?  Dead?" 

"Yes! — it  is  awful!  That  horrid  veronal!  Such 
a  dangerous  drug!  It  appears  she  was  accustomed 
to  take  it  for  sleep — and  unfortunately  she  took  an 
over-dose.  How  terrible  for  Lord  Blythe!" 

Innocent  sat  down,  trembling.  Her  gaze  involun- 
tarily wandered  to  the  portrait  of  Pierce  Armitage 
— the  lover  of  the  dead  woman,  and  her  father! 


330  INNOCENT 

The  handsome  face  with  its  dreamy  yet  proud  eyes 
appeared  conscious  of  her  intense  regard — she  looked 
and  looked,  and  longed  to  speak — to  tell  Miss  Leigh 
all — but  something  held  her  silent.  She  had  her  own 
secret  now — and  it  restrained  her  from  disclosing 
the  secrets  of  others.  Nor  could  she  realise  that  it 
was  her  mother — actually  her  own  mother — who  had 
been  taken  so  suddenly  and  tragically  from  the 
world.  The  news  barely  affected  her — nor  was  this 
surprising,  seeing  that  she  had  never  entirely  grasped 
the  fact  of  her  mother's  personality  or  existence  at 
all.  She  had  felt  no  emotion  concerning  her,  save 
of  repulsion  and  dislike.  Her  unexpected  figure  had 
appeared  on  the  scene  like  a  strange  vision,  and 
now  had  vanished  from  it  as  strangely.  Innocent 
was  in  very  truth  "motherless" — but  so  she  had  al- 
ways been — for  a  mother  who  deserts  her  child  is 
worse  than  a  mother  dead.  Yet  it  was  some  few 
minutes  before  she  could  control  herself  sufficiently 
to  speak  or  look  calmly — and  her  eyes  were  down- 
cast as  Miss  Leigh  came  up  to  the  tea-table,  newspa- 
per in  hand,  to  discuss  the  tragic  incident. 

"She  was  a  very  brilliant  woman  in  society,"  said 
the  gentle  old  lady,  then — "You  did  not  know  her, 
of  course,  and  you  could  not  judge  of  her  by  seeing 
her  just  one  evening.  But  I  remember  the  time 
when  she  was  much  talked  of  as  'the  beautiful 
Maude  Osborne' — she  was  a  very  lively,  wilful  girl, 
and  she  had  been  rather  neglected  by  her  parents, 
who  left  her  in  England  in  charge  of  some  friends 
while  they  were  in  India.  I  think  she  ran  rather 
wild  at  that  time.  There  was  some  talk  of  her  hav- 
ing gone  off  secretly  somewhere  with  a  lover — but  I 
never  believed  the  story.  It  was  a  silly  scandal — 
and  of  course  it  stopped  directly  she  married  Lord 
Blythe.  He  gave  her  a  splendid  position, — and  he 
was  devoted  to  her — poor  man!" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     331 

"Yes?"  murmured  Innocent,  mechanically.  She 
did  not  know  what  to  say. 

"If  she  had  been  blessed  with  children — or  even 
one  child,"  went  on  Miss  Leigh — "I  think  it  would 
have  been  better  for  her.  I  am  sure  she  would  have 
been  happier!  He  would,  I  feel  certain!" 

"No  doubt!"  the  girl  answered  in  the  same  quiet 
tone. 

"My  dear,  you  look  very  pale!"  said  Miss  Leigh, 
with  some  anxiety — "Have  you  been  working  too 
hard?" 

She  smiled. 

"That  would  be  impossible!"  she  answered.  "I 
could  not  work  too  hard — it  is  such  happiness  to 
work — one  forgets! — yes — one  forgets  all  that  one 
does  not  wish  to  remember!" 

The  anxious  expression  still  remained  on  Miss 
Lavinia's  face, — but,  true  to  the  instincts  of  an  old- 
fashioned  gentlewoman,  she  did  not  press  enquiries 
where  she  saw  they  might  be  embarrassing  or  un- 
welcome. And  though  she  now  loved  Innocent  as 
much  as  if  she  had  been  her  own  child,  she  never 
failed  to  remember  that  after  all,  the  girl  had  earned 
her  own  almost  wealthy  independence,  and  was  free 
to  do  as  she  liked  without  anybody's  control  or 
interference,  and  that  though  she  was  so  young  she 
was  bound  to  be  in  all  respects  untrammelled  in  her 
life  and  actions.  She  went  where  she  pleased — she 
had  her  own  little  hired  motor-brougham — she  also 
had  many  friends  who  invited  her  out  without  in- 
cluding Miss  Leigh  in  the  invitations,  and  she  was 
still  the  "paying  guest"  at  the  little  Kensington 
house, — a  guest  who  was  never  tired  of  doing  kindly 
and  helpful  deeds  for  the  benefit  of  the  sweet  old 
woman  who  was  her  hostess.  Once  or  twice  Miss 
Leigh  had  made  a  faint  half-hearted  protest  against 
her  constant  and  lavish  generosity. 


332  INNOCENT 

"My  dear,"  she  had  said — "With  all  the  money 
you  earn  now  you  could  live  in  a  much  larger  house 
—you  could  indeed  have  a  house  of  your  own,  with 
many  more  luxuries — why  do  you  stay  here,  shower- 
ing advantages  on  me,  who  am  nothing  but  a  prosy 
old  body? — you  could  do  much  better!" 

"Could  I  really?"  And  Innocent  had  laughed 
and  kissed  her.  "Well! — I  don't  want  to  do  any 
better — I'm  quite  happy  as  I  am.  One  thing  is — 
(and  you  seem  to  forget  it!) — that  I'm  very  fond 
of  you! — and  when  I'm  very  fond  of  a  person  it's 
difficult  to  shake  me  off!" 

So  she  stayed  on — and  lived  her  life  with  a  nun- 
like  simplicity  and  economy — spending  her  money  on 
others  rather  than  herself,  and  helping  those  in 
need, — and  never  even  in  her  dress,  which  was  al- 
ways exquisite,  running  into  vagaries  of  extrava- 
gance and  follies  of  fashion.  She  had  discovered  a 
little  French  dressmaker,  whose  husband  had  de- 
serted her,  leaving  her  with  two  small  children  to 
feed  and  educate,  and  to  this  humble,  un-famous 
plier  of  the  needle  she  entrusted  her  wardrobe  with 
entirely  successful  results.  Worth,  Paquin,  Doucet 
and  other  loudly  advertised  personages  were  all 
quoted  as  "creators"  of  her  gowns,  whereat  she  was 
amused. 

"A  little  personal  taste  and  thought  go  so  much 
further  in  dress  than  money,"  she  was  wont  to  say 
to  some  of  her  rather  envious  women  friends.  "I 
would  rather  copy  the  clothes  in  an  old  picture  than 
the  clothes  in  a  fashion  book." 

Odd  fancies  about  her  dead  mother  came  to  her 
when  she  was  alone  in  her  own  room — particularly  at 
night  when  she  said  her  prayers.  Some  mysterious 
force  seemed  compelling  her  to  offer  up  a  petition 
for  the  peace  of  her  mother's  soul, — she  knew  from 
the  old  books  written  by  the  "Sieur  Amadis"  that 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     333 

to  do  this  was  a  custom  of  his  creed.  She  missed 
it  out  of  the  Church  of  England  Prayer-book,  though 
she  dutifully  followed  the  tenets  of  the  faith  in  which 
Miss  Leigh  had  had  her  baptised  and  confirmed — 
but  in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  thought  it  good  and 
right  to  pray  for  the  peace  of  departed  souls 

"For  who  can  tell" — she  would  say  to  herself — 
"what  strange  confusion  and  sorrow  they  may  be 
suffering! — away  from  all  that  they  once  knew  and 
cared  for!  Even  if  prayers  cannot  help  them  it  is 
kind  to  pray!" 

And  for  her  mother's  soul  she  felt  a  dim  and  far- 
off  sense  of  pity — almost  a  fear,  lest  that  unsatisfied 
spirit  might  be  lost  and  wandering  hi  a  chaos  of  dark 
experience  without  any  clue  to  guide  or  any  light  to 
shine  upon  its  dreadful  solitude.  So  may  the  dead 
come  nearer  to  the  living  than  when  they  also  lived ! 

Some  three  or  four  weeks  after  Lady  Blythe's 
sudden  exit  from  a  world  too  callous  to  care  whether 
she  stayed  in  it  or  went  from  it,  Lord  Blythe  called 
at  Miss  Leigh's  house  and  asked  to  see  her.  He  was 
admitted  at  once,  and  the  pretty  old  lady  came  down 
in  a  great  flutter  to  the  drawing-room  to  receive  him. 
She  found  him  standing  in  front  of  the  harpsichord, 
looking  at  the  portrait  upon  it.  He  turned  quickly 
round  as  she  entered  and  spoke  with  some  abrupt- 
ness. 

"I  must  apologise  for  calling  rather  late  in  the 
afternoon,"  he  said — "But  I  could  not  wait  another 

day.  I  have  something  important  to  tell  you " 

He  paused — then  went  on — "It's  rather  startling  to 
me  to  find  that  portrait  here! — I  knew  the  man. 
Surely  it  is  Pierce  Armitage,  the  painter?" 

"Yes" — and  Miss  Leigh's  eyes  opened  in  a  little 
surprise  and  bewilderment — "He  was  a  great  friend 
of  mine — and  of  yours?" 

"He  was  my  college  chum" — and  he  walked  closer 


334  INNOCENT 

to  the  picture  and  looked  at  it  steadfastly — "That 
must  have  been  taken  when  he  was  quite  a  young 

man — before "     He   paused   again, — then   said 

with  a  forced  smile — "Talking  of  Armitage — is  Miss 
Armitage  in?" 

"No,  she  is  not" — and  the  old  lady  looked  regret- 
ful— "She  has  gone  out  to  tea — I'm  sorry " 

"It's  just  as  well" — and  Lord  Blythe  took  one  or 
two  restless  paces  up  and  down  the  little  room — 
"I  would  rather  talk  to  you  alone  first.  Yes! — that 
portrait  of  Pierce  must  have  been  taken  in  early  days 
— just  about  the  time  he  ran  away  with  Maude 
Osborne—" 

Miss  Leigh  gazed  at  him  enquiringly. 

"With  Maude  Osborne?" 

"Yes — with  Maude  Osborne,  who  afterwards  be- 
came my  wife." 

Miss  Leigh  trembled  and  drew  back,  looking  about 
her  in  a  dazed  way  as  though  seeking  for  some  place 
to  hide  in.  Lord  Blythe  saw  her  agitation. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  worrying  you!"  he  said,  kindly. 
"Sit  down,  please," — and  he  placed  a  chair  for  her. 
"We  are  both  elderly  folk  and  shocks  are  not  good 
for  us.  There!" — and  he  took  her  hand  and  patted 
it  gently — "As  I  was  saying,  that  portrait  must  have 
been  taken  about  then — did  he  give  it  to  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  faintly — "He  did.  We  were 
engaged " 

"Engaged!  Good  God!  You?— to  Pierce?— My 
dear  lady,  forgive  me! — I'm  very  sorry! — I  had  no 
idea '; 

But  Miss  Leigh  composed  herself  very  quickly. 

"Please  do  not  mind  me!"  she  said — "It  all  hap- 
pened so  very  long  ago !  Yes — Pierce  Armitage  and 
I  were  engaged — but  he  suddenly  went  away — and 
I  was  told  he  had  gone  with  some  very  beautiful 
girl  he  had  fallen  head  over  ears  in  love  with — and 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     335 

I  never  saw  him  again.    But  I  never  reproached  him 
— I — I  loved  him  too  well!" 

Silently  Lord  Blythe  took  the  worn  little  hand 
and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"Pierce  was  more  cruel  than  I  thought  was  pos- 
sible to  him" — he  said,  at  last,  very  gently — "But — 
you  have  the  best  of  him  with  you  in — his  daugh- 
ter!" 

"His  daughter!" 

She  sprang  up,  white  and  scared. 

He  gripped  her  arm  and  held  it  fast  to  support 
her. 

"Yes,"  he  said — "His  daughter!  That  is  what 
I  have  come  to  tell  you !  The  girl  who  lives  with  you 
— the  famous  author  whose  name  is  just  now  ringing 
through  the  world  is  his  child! — and  her  mother  was 
my  wife!" 

There  was  a  little  stifled  cry — she  dropped  back 
in  her  chair  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  to 
hide  the  tears  that  rushed  to  her  eyes. 

"Innocent!"  she  murmured,  sobbingly — "His 
child ! — Innocent ! " 

He  was  silent,  watching  her,  his  own  heart  deeply 
moved.  He  thought  of  her  life  of  unbroken  fidelity 
— wasted  in  its  youth — solitary  in  its  age — all  for 
the  sake  of  one  man.  Presently,  mastering  her 
quiet  weeping,  she  looked  up. 

"Does  she — the  dear  girl! — does  she  know  this?" 
she  asked,  in  a  half  whisper. 

"She  has  known  it  all  the  time,"  he  answered — 
"She  knew  who  her  mother  was  before  she  came  to 
London — but  she  kept  her  own  counsel — I  think  to 
save  the  honour  of  all  concerned.  And  she  has  made 
her  name  famous  to  escape  the  reproach  of  birth 
which  others  fastened  upon  her.  A  brave  child!— 
it  must  have  been  strange  to  her  to  find  her  father's 
portrait  here — did  you  ever  speak  of  him  to  her?" 


336  INNOCENT 

"Often!"  replied  Miss  Leigh.  "She  knows  all  my 
story!" 

He  smiled,  very  kindly, 

"No  wonder  she  was  silent!"  he  said. 

Just  then  they  heard  the  sound  of  a  latch-key 
turning  in  the  lock  of  the  hall  door — there  was  a  light 
step  in  the  passage — they  looked  at  one  another  half 
in  wonder,  half  in  doubt.  A  moment  more  and  In- 
nocent entered,  radiant  and  smiling.  She  stopped 
on  the  threshold,  amazed  at  the  sight  of  Lord 
Blythe. 

"Why,  godmother" — she  began.  Then,  glancing 
from  one  to  the  other,  her  cheeks  grew  pale — she 
hesitated,  instinctively  guessing  at  the  truth.  Lord 
Blythe  advanced  and  took  her  gently  by  both  hands. 

"Dear  child,  your  secret  is  ours ! "  he  said,  quietly. 
"Miss  Leigh  knows,  and  /  know  that  you  are  the 
daughter  of  Pierce  Armitage,  and  that  your  mother 
was  my  late  wife.  No  one  can  be  dearer  to  us  both 
than  you  are — for  your  father's  sake!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

STARTLED  and  completely  taken  aback,  she  let  her 
hands  remain  passively  in  his  for  a  moment, — then 
quietly  withdrew  them.  A  hot  colour  rushed  swiftly 
into  her  cheeks  and  as  swiftly  receded,  leaving  her 
very  pale. 

"How  can  you  know?"  she  faltered — "Who  has 
told  you?" 

"Your  mother  herself  told  me  on  the  night  she 
died,"  he  answered — "She  gave  me  all  the  truth  of 
herself, — at  last — after  long  years!" 

She  was  silent — standing  inert  as  though  she  had 
received  a  numbing  blow.  Miss  Leigh  rose  and  came 
tremblingly  towards  her. 

"My  dear,  my  dear!"  she  exclaimed — "I  wish  I 
had  known  it  all  before! — I  might  have  done  more 
— I  might  have  tried  to  be  kinder " 

The  girl  sprang  to  her  side  and  impulsively  em- 
braced her. 

"You  would  have  tried  in  vain!"  she  said,  fondly, 
"No  one  on  earth  could  have  been  kinder  than  my 
beloved  little  godmother!  You  have  been  the  dear- 
est and  best  of  friends!" 

Then  she  turned  towards  Lord  Blythe. 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  come  here  and  say 
what  you  have  said" — and  she  spoke  in  soft,  almost 
pathetic  accents — "But  I  am  sorry  that  anyone 
knows  my  story — it  is  no  use  to  know  it,  really!  I 
should  have  always  kept  it  a  secret — for  it  chiefly 
concerns  me,  after  all, — and  why  should  my  exist- 

337 


338  INNOCENT 

ence  cast  a  shadow  on  the  memory  of  my  father? 
Perhaps  you  may  have  known  him " 

"I  knew  him  and  loved  him!"  said  Lord  Blythe, 
quickly. 

She  looked  at  him  with  wistful,  tear-wet  eyes. 

"Well  then,  how  hard  it  must  be  for  you  to  think 
that  he  ever  did  anything  unworthy  of  himself!" 
she  said — "And  for  this  dear  lady  it  is  cruel! — for 
she  loved  him  too.  And  what  am  I  that  I  should 
cause  all  this  trouble!  I  am  a  nameless  creature — 
I  took  his  name  because  I  wanted  to  kindle  a  little 
light  of  my  own  round  ik— I  have  done  that!  And 
then  I  wanted  to  guard  his  memory  from  any  whis- 
per of  scandal — will  you  help  me  in  this?  The 
secret  must  still  be  kept — and  no  one  must  ever 
know  I  am  his  daughter.  For  though  your  wife  is 
dead  her  name  must  not  be  shamed  for  the  long 
ago  sin  of  her  youth — nor  must  I  be  branded  as 
what  I  am — base-born." 

Profoundly  touched  by  the  simple  straightforward 
eloquence  of  her  appeal,  Lord  Blythe  went  up  to 
her  where  she  stood  with  one  arm  round  Miss  Leigh. 

"My  dear  child,"  he  said,  earnestly — "believe  me, 
I  shall  never  speak  of  your  parentage  or  give  the 
slightest  hint  to  anyone  of  the  true  facts  of  your 
history — still  less  would  I  allow  you  to  be  lightly 
esteemed  for  what  is  no  fault  of  your  own.  You 
have  made  a  brilliant  name  and  fame  for  yourself 
— you  have  the  right  to  that  name  and  fame.  I 
came  here  to-day  for  two  reasons — one  to  tell  you 
that  I  was  fully  acquainted  with  all  you  had  en- 
dured and  suffered — the  other  to  ask  if  you  will  let 
me  be  your  guardian — your  other  father — and  give 
me  some  right  to  shelter  you  from  the  rough  ways 
of  the  world.  I  may  perhaps  in  this  way  make 
some  amends  to  you  for  the  loss  of  mother-love  and 
father-love — I  would  do  my  best " 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     339 

He  stopped — a  little  troubled  by  unusual  emotion. 
Innocent,  drawing  her  embracing  arm  away  from 
Miss  Leigh,  looked  at  him  with  wondering,  grateful 
eyes. 

"How  good  you  are!"  she  said,  softly — "You 
would  take  care  of  me — you  with  your  proud  name 
and  place! — and  I — the  poor,  unfortunately  born 
child  of  your  dead  friend!  Ah,  you  kind,  gentle 
heart! — I  thank  you! — but  no! — I  must  not  accept 
such  a  sacrifice  on  your  part — 

"It  would  be  no  sacrifice" — he  interrupted  her, 
eagerly — "No,  child! — it  would  be  pure  selfishness! 
— for  I'm  getting  old  and  am  lonely — and — and  I 
want  someone  to  look  after  me!"  He  laughed  a 
little  awkwardly.  "Why  not  come  to  me  and  be  my 
daughter?" 

She  smiled — caught  his  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"I  will  be  a  daughter  to  you  in  affection  and 
respect,"  she  said — "But  I  will  not  take  any  benefits 
from  you — no,  none!  Oh,  I  know  well  all  you  could 
and  would  do  for  me! — you  would  place  me  in  the 
highest  ranks  of  that  society  where  you  are  a  leader, 
and  you  would  surround  me  with  so  many  advan- 
tages and  powerful  friends  that  I  should  forget  my 
duty,  which  is  to  work  for  myself,  and  owe  nothing 
to  any  man!  Dear,  kind  Lord  Blythe! — do  not 
think  me  ungrateful!  But  I  have  made  my  own 
little  place  in  the  world,  and  I  must  keep  it — inde- 
pendently! Am  I  not  right,  my  godmother?" 

Miss  Leigh  looked  at  her  anxiously,  and  sighed. 

"My  dear,  you  must  think  well  about  it,"  she 
said — "Lord  Blythe  would  care  for  you  as  his  own 
child,  I  am  sure — and  his  home  would  be  a  safe  and 
splendid  one  for  you — but  there! — do  not  ask  me!" 
and  the  old  lady  wiped  away  one  or  two  trickling 
tears  from  her  eyes — "I  am  selfish! — and  now  I 
know  you  are  Pierce's  daughter  I  want  to  keep  you 


340  INNOCENT 

for  myself! — to  have  you  near  me! — to  look  at  you 
and  love  you! " 

Her  voice  broke — her  gaze  instinctively  wandered 
to  the  portrait  of  the  man  whose  memory  she  had 
cherished  so  long  and  so  fondly. 

"What  did  you  think — what  must  you  have 
thought  the  first  day  you  came  here  when  I  asked 
you  if  you  were  any  relation  to  Pierce  Armitage, 
and  told  you  that  was  his  portrait!"  she  said,  wist- 
fully. 

"I  thought  that  God  had  guided  me  to  you,"  the 
girl  answered,  in  soft,  grave  accents — "And  that  my 
father's  spirit  had  not  forsaken  me!" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  she  spoke 
more  lightly — 

"Dear  Lord  Blythe,"  she  said — "Now  that  you 
know  so  much  may  I  tell  you  my  own  story?  It 
will  not  take  long!  Come  and  sit  here — yes!" — and 
she  placed  a  comfortable  arm-chair  for  him,  while 
she  drew  Miss  Leigh  gently  down  on  the  sofa  and 
sat  next  to  her — "It  is  nothing  of  a  story! — my  little 
life  is  not  at  all  like  the  lives  lived  by  all  the  girls  of 
my  age  that  I  have  ever  met  or  seen — it's  all  in  the 
past,  as  it  were, — the  old,  very  old  past! — as  far 
back  as  the  days  of  Elizabeth ! " 

She  laughed,  but  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes — 
she  brushed  them  away  and  holding  Miss  Leigh's 
hand  in  her  own,  she  told  with  simple  truth  and  di- 
rectness the  narrative  of  her  childhood's  days — her 
life  on  Briar  Farm — how  she  had  been  trained  by 
Priscilla  to  bake,  and  brew,  and  wash  and  sew, — 
and  how  she  had  found  her  chief  joy  and  relaxation 
from  household  duties  in  the  reading  of  the  old 
books  she  had  found  stowed  away  in  the  dower- 
chests  belonging  to  the  "Sieur  Amadis  de  Jocelin." 

As  she  pronounced  the  name  with  an  unconscious- 
ly tender  accentuation  Lord  Blythe  interrupted  her. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     341 

"Why,  that's  a  curious  thing!  I  know  a  rather 
clever  painter  named  Amadis  de  Jocelyn — and  surely 
you  were  dancing  with  him  on  the  evening  I  first 
met  you?" 

A  wave  of  rosy  colour  swept  over  her  cheeks. 

"Yes! — that  is  what  I  was  just  going  to  tell 
you!"  she  said.  "He  is  another  Amadis  de  Jocelyn! 
—and  he  is  actually  connected  with  a  branch  of  the 
same  family!  His  ancestor  was  the  brother  of  that 
very  Amadis  who  lies  buried  at  Briar  Farm!  Is  it 
not  strange  that  I  should  have  met  him! — and  he 
is  going  to  paint  my  portrait!" 

"Is  he  indeed!"  and  Lord  Blythe  did  not  look 
impressed — "I  thought  he  was  a  landscape  man." 

"So  he  is,"  she  explained,  with  eagerness — "But 
he  can  do  portraits — and  he  wishes  to  make  a  pic- 
ture of  me,  because  I  have  been  a  student  of  the 
books  written  by  one  of  his  ancient  line.  Those 
books  taught  me  all  I  know  of  literature.  You  see, 
it  is  curious,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is,"  he  agreed,  rather  hesitatingly — "But  I've 
never  quite  liked  Jocelyn — he's  clever — yet  he  has 
always  struck  me  as  being  intensely  selfish, — a  cal- 
lous sort  of  man — many  artists  are." 

Her  eyes  drooped,  and  her  breath  came  and  went 
quickly. 

"I  suppose  all  clever  men  get  self-absorbed  some- 
times!" she  said,  with  a  quaint  little  air  of  wisdom 

—"But  I  don't  think  he  is  really  callous "  She 

broke  off,  and  laughed  brightly— "Anyhow  we 
needn't  discuss  him — need  we?  I  just  wanted  to 
tell  you  what  an  odd  experience  it  has  been  for  me 
to  meet  and  to  know  someone  descended  from  the 
family  of  the  old  French  knight  whose  spirit  was 
my  instructor  in  beautiful  things!  The  little  books 
of  his  own  poems  were  full  of  loveliness — and  I  used 


342  INNOCENT 

to  read  them  over  and  over  again.    They  were  all 
about  love  and  faith  and  honour " 

"Very  old-fashioned  subjects!"  said  Lord  Blythe, 
with  a  slight  smile — "And  not  very  much  in  favour 
nowadays!" 

Miss  Leigh  looked  at  him  questioningly. 

"You  think  not?"  she  said. 

He  gave  a  quick  sigh. 

"It  is  difficult  to  know  what  to  think,"  he  an- 
swered— "But  I  have  lived  a  long  life — long  enough 
to  have  seen  the  dispersal  of  many  illusions !  I  fear 
selfishness  is  the  keynote  of  the  greater  part  of  hu- 
manity. Those  who  do  the  kindest  deeds  are  in- 
variably the  worst  rewarded — and  love  in  its  highest 
form  is  so  little  known  that  it  may  be  almost  termed 
non-existent.  You" — and  he  looked  at  Innocent — 
"you  write  in  a  very  powerful  and  convincing  way 
about  things  of  which  you  can  have  had  no  real 
experience — and  therein  lies  your  charm!  You  re- 
store the  lost  youth  of  manhood  by  idealisation,  and 
you  compel  your  readers  to  'idealise'  with  you — but 
'to  idealise'  is  rather  a  dangerous  verb! — and  its  con- 
jugation generally  means  trouble  and  disaster. 
Ideals — unless  they  are  of  the  spiritual  kind  un- 
attainable on  this  planet — are  apt  to  be  very  dis- 
appointing." 

Innocent  smiled. 

"But  love  is  an  ideal  which  cannot  disappoint, 
because  it  is  everlasting!"  she  said,  almost  joyously. 
"The  story  of  the  old  French  knight  is,  in  its  way, 
a  proof  of  that.  He  loved  his  ideal  all  his  life,  even 
though  he  could  not  win  her." 

"Very  wonderful  if  true!"  he  answered — "But 
I  cannot  quite  believe  it!  I  am  too  familiar  with 
the  ways  of  my  own  sex!  Anyhow,  dear  child,  I 
should  advise  you  not  to  make  too  many  ideals  apart 
from  the  characters  in  the  books  you  write.  Fortu- 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    343 

nately  your  special  talent  brings  you  an  occupation 
which  will  save  you  from  that  kind  of  thing.  You 
have  ambition  as  an  incentive,  and  fame  for  a 
goal." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  In  relating  the 
story  of  her  life  at  Briar  Farm  she  had  not  spoken 
of  Robin  Clifford, — some  instinct  told  her  that  the 
sympathies  of  her  hearers  might  be  enlisted  hi  his 
favour,  and  she  did  not  want  this. 

"Well,  now  you  know  what  my  'literary  education' 
has  been,"  she  went  on — "Since  I  came  to  London 
I  have  tried  to  improve  myself  as  much  as  I  can — 
and  I  have  read  a  great  many  modern  books — but 
to  me  they  seem  to  lack  the  real  feeling  of  the  old- 
time  literature.  For  instance,  if  you  read  the  ac- 
count of  the  battle  of  the  Armada  by  a  modern 
historian  it  sounds  tame  and  cold, — but  if  you  read 
the  same  account  in  Camden's  'Elizabeth' — the 
whole  scene  rises  before  you, — you  can  almost  see 
every  ship  riding  the  waves!" 

Her  cheeks  glowed  and  her  eyes  shone, — Lord 
Blythe  smiled  approvingly. 

"I  see  you  are  an  enthusiast!"  he  said — "And 
you  could  not  have  better  teachers  than  the  Eliza- 
bethans. They  lived  in  a  great  age  and  they  were 
great  men.  Our  times,  though  crowded  with  the 
splendid  discoveries  of  science,  seem  small  and  poor 
compared  to  theirs.  If  you  ever  come  to  me,  I  can 
give  you  the  run  of  a  library  where  you  will  find 
many  friends." 

She  thanked  him  by  a  look,  and  he  went  on — 

"You  will  come  and  see  me  often,  will  you  not? — 
you  and  Miss  Leigh — by-and-by,  when  the  conven- 
tional tune  of  mourning  for  my  poor  wife  is  over. 
Make  my  house  your  second  home,  both  of  you! — 
and  when  I  return  from  Italy " 


344  INNOCENT 

"Oh!"  the  girl  exclaimed,  impulsively — "Are  you 
going  to  Italy?" 

"For  a  few  weeks — yes! — will  you  come  with  me 
— you  and  your  godmother?" 

His  old  heart  beat, — a  sudden  joy  lighted  his 
eyes.  It  would  have  been  like  the  dawn  of  a  new 
day  to  him  had  she  consented,  but  she  shook  her 
fair  little  head  decisively. 

"I  must  not!"  she  said — "I  am  bound  to  finish 
some  work  that  I  have  promised.  But  some  day — 
ah,  yes! — some  day  I  should  love  to  see  Italy!" 

The  light  went  slowly  from  his  face. 

"Some  day! — well! — I  hope  I  may  live  to  be 
with  you  on  that  'some  day/  I  ought  not  to  leave 
London  just  now — but  the  house  is  very  lonely — and 
I  think  I  am  best  away  for  a  time " 

"Much  best!"  said  Miss  Leigh,  sympathetically — 
"And  if  there  is  anything  we  can  do " 

"Yes — there  is  one  thing  that  will  please  me  very 
much,"  said  Lord  Blythe,  drawing  from  his  pocket 
a  small  velvet  case — "I  want  my  friend  Pierce's 
daughter  to  wear  this — it  was  my  first  gift  to  her 
mother."  Here  he  opened  the  case  and  showed  an 
exquisite  pendant,  in  the  shape  of  a  dove,  finely 
wrought  in  superb  brilliants,  and  supported  on  a 
thin  gold  chain.  "I  gave  it  as  an  emblem  of  inno- 
cence"— a  quick  sigh  escaped  him — "I  little  knew! 
— but  you,  dear  girl,  are  the  one  to  wear  it  now! 
Let  me  fasten  it  round  your  neck." 

She  stooped  forward,  and  he  took  a  lingering 
pleasure  in  putting  the  chain  on  and  watching  the 
diamonds  flash  against  her  fair  skin.  She  was  too 
much  moved  to  express  any  worded  thanks — it  was 
not  the  value  or  the  beauty  of  the  gift  that  touched 
her,  but  its  association  and  the  way  it  was  given. 
And  then,  after  a  little  more  desultory  conversation, 
he  rose  to  go. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    345 

"Remember!"  he  said,  taking  her  tenderly  by 
both  hands — "Whenever  you  want  a  home  and  a 
father,  both  are  ready  and  waiting  for  you!"  And 
he  kissed  her  lightly  on  the  forehead.  "You  are 
famous  and  independent,  but  the  world  is  not  always 
kind  to  a  clever  woman  even  when  she  is  visibly 
known  to  be  earning  her  own  living.  There  are  al- 
ways spiteful  tongues  wagging  in  the  secret  corners 
and  byways,  ready  to  assert  that  her  work  is  not 
her  own  and  that  some  man  is  in  the  background, 
helping  to  keep  her!" 

He  then  shook  hands  warmly  with  Miss  Leigh. 

"If  she  ever  comes  to  me" — he  went  on — "you 
are  free  to  come  with  her — and  be  assured  of  my 
utmost  friendship  and  respect.  I  shall  feel  I  am  in 
some  way  doing  what  I  know  my  old  friend  Pierce 
Armitage  would,  in  his  best  moments,  approve,  if 
I  can  be  of  the  least  service  to  you.  You  will  not 
forget?" 

Miss  Leigh  was  too  overcome  by  the  quiet  sweet- 
ness and  dignity  of  his  manner  to  murmur  more 
than  a  few  scarcely  audible  words  of  gratitude  in 
reply — and  when  at  last  he  took  his  leave,  she  re- 
lieved her  heart  by  throwing  her  arms  round  Inno- 
cent and  having  what  she  called  "a  good  cry." 

"And  you  Pierce's  child!"  she  half  laughed,  half 
sobbed — "Oh,  how  could  he  leave  you  at  that  farm ! 
— poor  little  thing! — and  yet  it  might  have  been 
much  worse " 

"Indeed  I  should  think  so!"  and  Innocent  soothed 
her  fondly  with  the  tenderest  caresses — "Very  much 
worse!  Why,  if  I  had  not  been  left  at  Briar  Farm, 
I  should  never  have  known  Dad! — and  he  was  one 
of  the  best  of  men — and  I  should  never  have  learned 
how  to  think,  and  write  my  thoughts,  from  the 
teaching  of  the  Sieur  Amadis  de  Jocelin!" 

There  was  a  little  thrill  of  triumph  in  her  voice — 


346  INNOCENT 

and  Miss  Leigh,  wiping  away  her  tears,  looked  at 
her  timidly  and  curiously. 

"How  you  dwell  on  the  memory  of  that  French 
knight!"  she  said.  "When  are  you  going  to  have 
your  portrait  painted  by  the  modern  Amadis?" 

Innocent  smiled. 

"Very  soon!"  she  answered — "We  are  to  begin 
our  sittings  next  week.  I  am  to  wear  a  white  frock 
— and  I  told  him  about  my  dove  Cupid,  and  how  it 
used  to  fly  from  the  gables  of  the  house  to  my  hand 
— and  he  is  going  to  paint  the  bird  as  well  as  me!" 

She  laughed  with  the  joy  of  a  child. 

"Fancy!    Cupid  will  be  there!" 

"Cupid?"  echoed  Miss  Leigh,  wonderingly. 

"Yes — Cupid! — usually  known  as  the  little  god  of 
love, — but  only  a  dove  this  time! — so  much  more 
harmless  than  the  god!" 

Miss  Leigh  touched  the  diamond  pendant  at  the 
girl's  neck. 

"You  have  a  dove  there  now,"  she  said — "All 
in  jewels!  And  in  your  heart,  dear  child,  I  pray 
there  is  a  spiritual  dove  of  holy  purity  to  guard  you 
from  all  evil  and  keep  your  sweet  soul  safe  and 
clean!" 

A  startled  look  came  into  the  girl's  soft  grey-blue 
eyes, — a  deep  flush  of  rose  flew  over  her  cheeks  and 
brow. 

"A  blessing  or  a  warning,  godmother  mine?"  she 
said. 

Miss  Leigh  drew  her  close  in  her  arms  and  kissed 
her. 

"Both!"  she  answered,  simply. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

Then  Innocent,  her  face  still  warm  with  colour, 
walked  close  up  to  the  harpsichord  where  her 
father's  picture  stood. 

"Let  us  talk  of  himl"  she  said — "Now  that  you 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    347 

know  I  am  his  daughter,  tell  me  all  you  remember  of 
him! — how  he  spoke,  how  he  looked! — what  sort  of 
pictures  he  painted — and  what  he  used  to  say  to 
you!  He  loved  you  once,  and  I  love  you  now! — so 
you  must  tell  me  everything!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

FAME,  or  notoriety,  whichever  that  special  noise 
may  be  called  when  the  world  like  a  hound  "gives 
tongue"  and  announces  that  the  quarry  in  some  form 
of  genius  is  at  bay,  is  apt  to  increase  its  clamour 
in  proportion  to  the  aloofness  of  the  pursued  ani- 
mal,— and  Innocent,  who  saw  nothing  remarkable 
in  remaining  somewhat  secluded  and  apart  from  the 
ordinary  routine  of  social  life  so  feverishly  followed 
by  more  than  half  her  sex,  was  very  soon  classified 
as  "proud"— "eccentric"— "difficult"  and  "vain,"  by 
idle  and  ignorant  persons  who  knew  nothing  about 
her,  and  only  judged  her  by  their  own  limited  con- 
ceptions of  what  a  successful  author  might  or  could 
possibly  be  like.  Some  of  these,  more  foolish  than 
the  rest,  expressed  themselves  as  afraid  or  unwilling 
to  meet  her — "lest  she  should  put  them  into  her 
books" — this  being  a  common  form  of  conceit  with 
many  individuals  too  utterly  dull  and  uninteresting 
to  "make  copy"  for  so  much  as  the  humblest  para- 
graphist.  It  was  quite  true  that  she  showed  her- 
self sadly  deficient  in  the  appreciation  of  society 
functions  and  society  people, — to  her  they  seemed 
stupid  and  boresome,  involving  much  waste  of 
precious  time, — but  notwithstanding  this,  she  was 
invited  everywhere,  and  the  accumulation  of 
"R.S.V.P."  cards  on  her  table  and  desk  made  such 
a  formidable  heap  that  it  was  quite  a  business  to 
clear  them,  as  she  did  once  a  week,  with  the  as- 
sistance of  the  useful  waste-paper  basket.  As  a 
writer  her  popularity  was  unquestionable,  and  so 

348 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     349 

great  and  insistent  was  the  public  demand  for  any- 
thing from  her  pen  that  she  could  command  her 
own  terms  from  any  publishing  quarter.  Her  good 
fortune  made  very  little  effect  upon  her, — sometimes 
it  seemed  as  if  she  hardly  realised  or  cared  to  realise 
it.  She  had  odd,  almost  child-like  ways  of  spending 
some  of  her  money  in  dainty  "surprise"  gifts  to  her 
friends — that  is  to  say,  such  friends  as  had  shown 
her  kindness, — beautiful  flowers  and  fruit  for  in- 
valids— choice  wines  for  those  who  needed  yet  could 
not  afford  them, — a  new  drawing-room  carpet  for 
Miss  Leigh,  which  was,  in  the  old  lady's  opinion, 
a  most  important  and  amazing  affair! — costly  furs, 
also  for  Miss  Leigh, — and  devices  and  adornments 
of  all  sorts  for  the  pleasure,  beauty  or  comfort  of 
the  house — but  on  herself  personally  she  spent  noth- 
ing save  what  was  necessary  for  such  dress  and  ap- 
pearance as  best  accorded  with  her  now  acknowl- 
edged position.  Dearly  as  she  would  have  loved  to 
shower  gifts  and  benefits  on  the  inhabitants  of  never- 
forgotten  Briar  Farm,  she  knew  that  if  she  did  any- 
thing of  the  kind  poor  lonely  old  Priscilla  Friday 
and  patiently  enduring  Robin  Clifford  were  more 
likely  to  be  hurt  than  gratified.  For  a  silence  had 
fallen  between  that  past  life,  which  had  been  like 
a  wild  rose  blossoming  in  a  country  lane,  and  the 
present  one,  which  resembled  a  wonderful  orchid 
flower,  flaming  in  heat  under  glass, — and  though  she 
wrote  to  Robin  now  and  again,  and  he  replied,  his 
letters  were  restrained  and  formal — almost  cold.  He 
knew  too  well  how  far  she  was  removed  from  him  by 
more  than  distance,  and  bravely  contented  himself 
with  merely  giving  her  such  news  of  the  farm  and 
her  former  home  surroundings  as  might  awaken  her 
momentary  interest  without  recalling  too  many  old 
memories  to  her  mind. 

She  seemed,  and  to  a  very  great  extent  she  was, 


350  INNOCENT 

unconscious  of  the  interest  and  curiosity  both  her 
work  and  her  personality  excited — the  more  so  now 
as  the  glamour  and  delight  of  her  creative  imagina- 
tion had  been  obscured  by  what  she  considered  a  far 
greater  and  more  lasting  glory — that  of  love! — the 
golden  mirage  of  a  fancied  sun,  which  for  a  time  had 
quenched  the  steadier  shining  of  eternal  stars.  Since 
that  ever  memorable  night  when  he  had  suddenly 
stormed  the  fortress  of  her  soul,  and  by  the  mastery 
of  a  lover's  kiss  had  taken  full  possession,  Amadis 
de  Jocelyn  had  pursued  his  "amour"  with  admirable 
tact,  cleverness  and  secrecy.  He  found  a  new  and 
stimulating  charm  in  making  love  to  a  tender- 
hearted, credulous  little  creature  who  seemed  truly 
"of  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of" — and  to  a 
man  of  his  particular  type  and  temperament  there 
was  an  irresistible  provocation  to  his  vanity  in  the 
possibility  of  being  able  to  lure  her  gradually  and 
insidiously  down  from  the  high  ground  of  intellec- 
tual ambition  and  power  to  the  low  level  of  that 
pitiful  sex-submission  which  is  responsible  for  so 
much  more  misery  than  happiness  in  this  world. 
Little  by  little,  under  his  apparently  brusque  and 
playful,  but  really  studied  training,  she  began  to 
think  less  and  less  of  her  work, — the  books  she  had 
loved  to  read  and  refer  to,  insensibly  lost  their 
charm, — she  went  reluctantly  to  her  desk,  and  as  re- 
luctantly took  up  her  pen, — what  she  had  written 
already,  appeared  to  her  utterly  worthless, — and 
what  she  attempted  to  write  now  was  to  her  mind 
poor  and  unsatisfying.  She  was  not  moved  by  the 
knowledge,  constantly  pressed  upon  her,  that  she 
was  steadily  rising,  despite  herself,  to  the  zenith 
of  her  career  in  such  an  incredibly  swift  and  bril- 
liant way  as  to  be  the  envy  of  all  her  contemporaries, 
— she  was  hardly  as  grateful  for  her  honours  as 
weary  of  them  and  a  little  contemptuous.  What 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     351 

did  it  all  matter  to  her  when  half  of  her  once  busy 
working  mornings  were  now  often  passed  in  the 
studio  of  Amadis  de  Jocelyn!  He  was  painting  a 
full-length  portrait  of  her — a  mere  excuse  to  give 
her  facilities  for  visiting  him,  and  ensure  his  own 
privacy  and  convenience  in  receiving  her — and 
every  day  she  went  to  him,  sometimes  late  in  the 
afternoons  as  well  as  the  mornings,  slipping  in  and 
out  familiarly  and  quite  unnoticed,  for  he  had  given 
her  a  key  to  the  private  door  of  his  studio,  which 
was  reached  through  a  small,  deeply  shaded  garden, 
abutting  on  an  old-fashioned  street  near  Holland 
Park.  She  could  enter  at  any  time,  and  thought  it 
was  the  customary  privilege  accorded  by  an  artist 
to  his  sitter,  while  it  saved  the  time  and  trouble 
of  the  rheumatic  "odd  man"  or  servant  whose  fail- 
ing limbs  were  slow  to  respond  to  a  summons  at  the 
orthodox  front  entrance.  She  would  come  in,  dressed 
in  her  simple  navy  blue  serge  walking  costume,  and 
then  in  a  little  room  just  off  the  studio  would 
change  and  put  on  the  white  dress  which  her  lover 
had  chosen  as  the  most  suitable  for  his  purpose,  and 
which  he  called  the  "portrait  gown."  It  was  simple, 
and  severely  Greek,  made  of  the  softest  and  filmiest 
material  which  fell  gracefully  away  in  enchanting 
folds  from  her  childishly  rounded  neck  and  arms, — 
it  gave  her  the  appearance  of  a  Psyche  or  an 
Ariadne, — and  at  the  first  sitting,  when  he  had 
posed  her  in  several  attitudes  before  attempting 
to  draw  a  line,  she  had  so  much  sweet  attractive- 
ness about  her  that  he  was  hardly  to  be  blamed 
for  throwing  aside  all  work  and  devoting  himself 
to  such  ardent  delight  in  woman's  fairness  as  may 
sometimes  fall  to  the  lot  of  man.  While  moving 
from  one  position  to  another  as  he  suggested  or 
commanded,  she  had  playfully  broken  off  one  flower 
from  a  large  plant  of  "marguerite"  daisies  growing 


352  INNOCENT 

in  a  quaint  Japanese  pot,  close  at  hand,  and  had 
begun  pulling  off  the  petals  according  to  the  old 
fanciful  charm — "II  m'aime! — un  peu! — beaucoup! 
— passionement ! — pas  du  tout!"  He  stopped  her  at 
the  word  "passionement,"  and  caught  her  in  his 
arms. 

"Not  another  petal  must  be  plucked!"  he  whis- 
pered, kissing  her  soft  warm  neck — "I  will  not  have 
you  say  Tas  du  tout!' ' 

She  laughed  delightedly,  nestling  against  him. 

"Very  well!"  she  said — "But  suppose " 

"Suppose  what?" 

"Suppose  it  ever  came  to  that?" — and  she  sighed 
as  she  spoke— -"Then  the  last  petal  must  fall!" 

"Do  you  think  it  ever  will  or  can  come  to  that?" 
he  asked,  pressing  a  kiss  on  the  sweet  upturned  lips 
—"Does  it  seem  like  it?" 

She  was  too  happy  to  answer  him,  and  he  was 
too  amorous  just  then  to  think  of  anything  but  her 
soft  eyes,  dewy  with  tenderness — her  white,  ivory- 
smooth  skin — her  small  caressing  hands,  and  the 
fine  bright  tendrils  of  her  waving  hair — all  these 
were  his  to  play  with  as  a  child  plays  with  beauti- 
ful toys  unconscious  of  or  indifferent  to  their  value. 

Many  such  passages  of  love  occupied  their  tune — 
though  he  managed  to  make  a  good  show  of  pro- 
gressive work  after  the  first  rough  outline  drawing 
of  the  picture  was  completed.  He  was  undeniably 
a  genius  in  his  way,  uncertain  and  erratic  of  im- 
pulse, but  his  art  was  strong  because  its  effects  were 
broad  and  simple.  He  had  begun  Innocent's  por- 
trait out  of  the  mere  desire  to  have  her  with  him 
constantly, — but  as  day  after  day  went  on  and  the 
subject  developed  under  his  skilled  hand  and  brush 
he  realised  that  it  would  probably  be  "the"  picture 
of  the  Salon  in  the  following  year.  As  this  convic- 
tion dawned  upon  him,  he  took  greater  pains,  and 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    353 

worked  more  carefully  and  conscientiously  with 
the  happiest  results,  feeling  a  thrill  of  true  artistic 
satisfaction  as  the  picture  began  to  live  and  smile 
in  response  to  his  masterly  touch  and  treatment. 
Its  composition  was  simple — he  had  drawn  the  girl 
as  though  she  were  slowly  advancing  towards  the 
spectator,  giving  her  figure  all  the  aerial  grace  hab- 
itual to  it  by  nature, — one  little  daintily  shaped 
hand  held  a  dove  lightly  against  her  breast,  as 
though  the  bird  had  just  flown  there  for  protec- 
tion from  its  own  alarm, — her  face  was  slightly  up- 
lifted,— the  lips  smiled,  and  the  eyes  looked  straight 
out  at  the  world  with  a  beautiful,  clear  candour 
which  was  all  their  own.  Yet  despite  the  charm  and 
sweetness  of  the.  likeness  there  was  a  strange  pathos 
about  it, — a  sadness  which  Jocelyn  had  never  set 
there  by  his  own  will  or  intention. 

"You  are  a  puzzling  subject,"  he  said  to  her  one 
day — "I  wanted  to  give  you  a  happy  expression — 
and  yet  your  portrait  is  actually  growing  sad! — al- 
most reproachful!  ...  do  you  look  at  me  like 
that?" 

She  opened  her  pretty  eyes  wonderingly. 

"Amadis!  Surely  not!  I  could  not  look  sad 
when  I  am  with  you! — that  is  impossible!" 

He  paused,  palette  in  hand. 

"Nor  reproachful?" 

"How?  When  I  have  nothing  to  reproach  you 
for?"  she  answered. 

He  put  his  palette  aside  and  came  and  sat  at  her 
feet  on  the  step  of  the  dais  where  he  had  posed  her. 

"You  may  rest,"  he  said,  smiling  up  at  her — 
"And  so  may  I."  She  sat  down  beside  him  and  he 
folded  her  in  his  arms.  "How  often  we  rest  in  this 
way,  don't  we!"  he  murmured — "And  so  you  think 
you  have  nothing  to  reproach  me  for!  Well, — I'm 
not  so  sure  of  that — Innocent!" 


*54  INNOCENT 

She  looked  at  him  questioningly. 

"Are  you  talking  nonsense,  my  'Sieur  Amadis'? — 
or  are  you  serious?"  she  asked. 

"I  am  quite  serious — much  more  serious  than  is 
common  with  me,"  he  replied,  taking  one  of  her 
hands  and  studying  it  as  the  perfect  model  it  was — 
"I  believe  I  am  involving  you  in  all  sorts  of  trouble 
— and  you,  you  absurd  little  child,  don't  see  it! 
Suppose  Miss  Leigh  were  to  find  out  that  we  make 
the  maddest  love  to  each  other  in  here — you  all 
alone  with  me — what  would  she  say?" 

"What  could  she  say?"  Innocent  demanded,  sun- 
ply — "There  is  no  harm! — and  I  should  not  mind 
telling  her  we  are  lovers." 

"I  should,  though!"  was  his  quick  thought,  while 
he  marvelled  at  her  unworldliness. 

"Besides" — she  continued — "she  has  no  right  over 
me." 

"Who  has  any  right  over  you?"  he  asked,  curi- 
ously. 

She  laughed,  softly. 

"No  one! — except  you!" 

"Oh,  hang  me!"  he  exclaimed,  impatiently — 
"Leave  me  out  of  the  question.  Have  you  no  father 
or  mother?" 

She  was  a  little  hurt  at  his  sudden  irritability. 

"No,"  she  answered,  quietly — "I  have  often  told 
you  I  have  no  one.  I  am  alone  in  the  world — I 
can  do  as  I  like."  Then  a  smile  brightened  her  face. 
"Lord  Blythe  would  have  me  as  a  daughter  if  I 
would  go  to  him." 

He  started  and  loosened  her  from  his  embrace. 

"Lord  Blythe!  That  wealthy  old  peer!  What 
does  he  want  with  you?" 

"Nothing,  I  suppose,  but  the  pleasure  of  my 
company!"  and  she  laughed — "Doesn't  that  seem 
strange?" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     355 

He  rose  and  went  back  to  work  at  his  easel. 

"Rather!"  he  said,  slowly — "Are  you  going  to 
accept  his  offer?" 

Her  eyes  opened  widely. 

"I?  My  Amadis,  how  can  you  think  it?  I  would 
not  accept  it  for  all  the  world!  He  would  load  me 
with  benefits — he  would  surround  me  with  luxuries 
— but  I  do  not  want  these.  I  like  to  work  for  myself 
and  be  independent." 

He  laid  a  brush  lightly  in  colour  and  began  to  use 
it  with  delicate  care. 

"You  are  not  very  wise,"  he  then  said — "It's 
a  great  thing  for  a  young  girl  like  you  who  are  all 
alone  in  the  world,  to  be  taken  in  hand  by  such  a 
man  as  Blythe.  He's  a  statesman, — very  useful  to 
his  country, — he's  very  rich  and  has  a  splendid  po- 
sition. His  wife's  sudden  death  has  left  him  very 
lonely  as  he  has  no  children, — you  could  be  a 
daughter  to  him,  and  it  would  be  a  great  leap  up- 
wards for  you,  socially  speaking.  You  would  be 
much  better  off  under  his  care  than  scribbling 
books." 

She  drew  a  sharp  breath  of  pain, — all  the  pretty 
colour  fled  from  her  cheeks. 

"You  do  not  care  for  me  to  scribble  books!"  she 
said,  in  low,  stifled  accents. 

He  laughed. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind! — I  never  read  them, — and 
in  a  way  it  amuses  me!  You  are  such  an  armful 
of  sweetness — such  a  warm,  nestling  little  bird  of 
love  in  my  arms! — and  to  think  that  you  actually 
write  books  that  the  world  talks  about! — the  thing 
is  so  incongruous — so  'out  of  drawing'  that  it  makes 
me  laugh!  I  don't  like  writing  women  as  a  rule — 
they  give  themselves  too  many  airs  to  please  me — • 
but  you " 


856  INNOCENT 

He  paused. 

"Well,  go  on,"  she  said,  coldly. 

He  looked  at  her,  smiling. 

"You  are  cross?  Don't  be  cross, — you  lose  your 
enchanting  expression !  Well — you  don't  give  your- 
self any  airs,  and  you  seem  to  play  at  literature  like 
a  child  playing  at  a  game:  of  course  you  make 
money  by  it, — but — you  know  better  than  I  do 
that  the  greatest  writers" — he  emphasized  the  word 
"greatest"  slightly — "never  make  money  and  are 
never  popular." 

"Does  failure  constitute  greatness?"  she  asked, 
with  a  faintly  satirical  inflection  in  her  sweet  voice 
which  he  had  never  heard  before. 

"Sometimes — in  fact  pretty  often,"  he  replied, 
dabbing  his  brush  busily  on  his  canvas — "You  should 
read  about  great  authors " 

"I  have  read  about  them,"  she  said — "Walter 
Scott  was  popular  and  made  money, — Charles  Dick- 
ens was  popular  and  made  money — Thackeray  was 
popular  and  made  money — Shakespeare  himself 
seemed  to  have  had  the  one  principal  aim  of  making 
sufficient  money  enough  to  live  comfortably  in  his 
native  town,  and  he  was  'popular'  in  his  day — 
indeed  he  'played  to  the  gallery.'  But  he  was  not  a 
'failure' — and  the  whole  world  acknowledges  his 
greatness  now,  though  in  his  life-time  he  was  un- 
conscious of  it." 

Surprised  at  her  quick  eloquence,  he  paused  in  his 
work. 

"Very  well  spoken!"  he  remarked,  condescend- 
ingly— "I  see  you  take  a  high  view  of  your  art! 
But  like  all  women,  you  wander  from  the  point. 
We  were  talking  of  Lord  Blythe — and  I  say  it  would 
be  far  better  for  you  to  be — well! — his  heiress! — 
for  he  might  leave  you  all  his  fortune — than  go  on 
writing  books." 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    357 

Her  lips  quivered :  despite  her  efforts,  tears  started 
to  her  eyes.  He  saw,  and  throwing  down  his  brush 
came  and  knelt  beside  her,  passing  his  arm  round 
her  waist. 

"What  have  I  said?"  he  murmured,  coaxingly — 
"Innocent! — sweet  little  love!  Forgive  me  if  I  have 
— what?" — and  he  laughed  softly — "rubbed  you  up 
the  wrong  way!" 

She  forced  a  smile,  and  her  delicate  white  hands 
wandered  caressingly  through  his  hair  as  he  laid  his 
head  against  her  bosom. 

"I  am  sorry!"  she  said,  at  last — "I  thought— I 
hoped — you  might  be  proud  of  my  work,  Amadis! 
I  was  planning  it  all  for  that!  You  see" — she  hes- 
itated— "I  learned  so  much  from  the  Sieur  Amadis 
de  Jocelin — the  brother  of  your  ancestor! — that  I 
have  been  thinking  all  the  tune  how  I  could  best 
show  you  that  I  was  worthy  of  his  teaching.  The 
world — or  the  public — you  know  the  things  they  say 
of  me — but  I  do  not  want  their  praise.  I  believe  I 
could  do  something  really  great  if  you  cared! — for 
now  it  is  only  to  please  you  that  I  live." 

A  sense  of  shame  stung  him  at  this  simple  avowal. 

"Nonsense!"  he  said,  almost  brusquely — "You 
have  a  thousand  other  things  to  live  for — you  must 
not  think  of  pleasing  me  only.  Besides  I'm  not  very 
keen  on  literature, — I'm  a  painter." 

"Surely  painting  owes  something  to  literature?" 
she  queried — "We  should  not  have  had  all  the  won- 
derful Madonnas  and  Christs  of  the  old  masters  if 
there  had  been  no  Bible!" 

"True! — but  perhaps  we  could  have  done  without 
them!"  he  said,  lightly — "I'm  not  at  all  sure  that 
painting  would  not  have  got  on  just  as  well  without 
literature  at  all.  There  is  always  nature  to  study — 
sky,  sea,  landscape  and  the  faces  of  lovely  women 


358  INNOCENT 

and  children, — quite  enough  for  any  man.  Where  is 
Lord  Blythe  now?" 

"In  Italy,"  she  replied — "He  will  be  away  some 
months." 

She  spoke  with  constraint.  Her  heart  was  heavy 
— the  hopes  and  ambitions  she  had  cherished  of 
adding  lustre  to  her  fame  for  the  joy  and  pride  of 
her  lover,  seemed  all  crushed  at  one  blow.  She  was 
too  young  and  inexperienced  to  realise  the  fact  that 
few  men  are  proud  of  any  woman's  success,  especially 
in  the  arts.  Their  attitude  is  one  of  amused  toler- 
ance when  it  is  not  of  actual  sex- jealousy  or  con- 
tempt Least  of  all  can  any  man  endure  that  the 
woman  for  whom  he  has  a  short  spell  of  passionate 
fancy  should  be  considered  notable,  or  in  an  intel- 
lectual sense  superior  to  himself.  He  likes  her  to  be 
dependent  on  him  alone  for  her  happiness, — for  such 
poor  crumbs  of  comfort  he  is  pleased  to  give  her 
when  the  heat  of  his  first  passion  has  cooled, — but 
he  is  not  altogether  pleased  when  she  has  sufficient 
intelligent  perception  to  see  through  his  web  of 
subterfuge  and  break  away  clear  of  the  entangling 
threads,  standing  free  as  a  goddess  on  the  height 
of  her  own  independent  attainment.  Innocent's 
idea  of  love  was  the  angelic  dream  of  truth  and  ever- 
lastingness  set  forth  by  poets,  whose  sweet  singing 
deludes  themselves  and  others, — she  was  ready  to 
devote  all  the  unique  powers  of  her  mind  and  brain 
to  the  perfecting  of  herself  for  her  lover's  delight. 
She  wished  to  be  beautiful,  brilliant,  renowned  and 
admired,  simply  that  he  might  take  joy  in  knowing 
that  this  beautiful,  brilliant,  renowned  and  admired 
creature  was  his,  body  and  soul — existing  solely  for 
him  and  content  to  live  only  so  long  as  he  lived,  to 
work  only  so  long  as  he  worked, — to  be  nothing 
apart  from  his  love,  but  to  be  everything  he  could 
desire  or  command  while  his  love  environed  her. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     359 

She  thought  of  the  eternal  union  of  souls, — while  he 
had  no  belief  in  the  soul  at  all,  his  half  French  mate- 
rialism persuading  him  that  there  was  nothing  eter- 
nal. And  like  all  men  of  his  type  he  estimated 
her  tenderness  for  him,  her  clinging  arms,  and  the 
lingering  passion  of  her  caresses,  to  be  chiefly  the 
outflow  of  pleased  vanity — the  kittenish  satisfac- 
tion of  being  stroked  and  fondled — the  sense  of  her 
own  sex-attractiveness, — but  of  anything  deep  and 
closely  rooted  in  the  centre  of  a  more  than  usually 
sensitive  nature  he  had  not  the  faintest  conception, 
taking  it  for  granted  that  all  women,  even  clever 
ones,  were  more  or  less  alike,  easily  consoled  by  new 
millinery  when  lovers  failed. 

Sometimes,  during  the  progress  of  their  secret 
amour,  a  thrill  of  uneasiness  and  fear  ran  coldly 
through  her  veins — a  wondering  doubt  which  she 
.repelled  with  indignation  whenever  it  suggested  it- 
self. Amadis  de  Jocelyn  was  and  must  be  the  very 
embodiment  of  loyalty  and  honour  to  the  woman 
he  loved! — it  could  not  be  otherwise.  His  tender- 
ness was  ardent, — his  passion  fiery  and  eager, — yet 
she  wondered — timidly  and  with  deep  humiliation 
in  herself  for  daring  to  think  so  far — why,  if  he  lored 
her  so  much  as  he  declared,  did  he  not  ask  her  to  be 
his  wife?  She  supposed  he  would  do  so, — though 
she  had  heard  him  depreciate  marriage  as  a  necessary 
evil.  Evidently  he  had  his  own  good  reasons  for 
deferring  the  fateful  question.  Meanwhile  she  made 
a  little  picture-gallery  of  ideal  joys  in  her  brain, — 
and  one  of  her  fancies  was  that  when  she  married 
her  Amadis  she  would  ask  Robin  Clifford  to  let  her 
buy  Briar  Farm. 

"He  could  paint  well  there!"  she  thought,  hap- 
pily, already  seeing  in  her  mind's  eye  the  "Great 
Hall"  transformed  into  an  artist's  studio — "and  I 
almost  think  7  could  carry  on  the  farm — Priscilla 


360  INNOCENT 

would  help  me, — and  we  know  just  how  Dad  liked 
things  to  be  done — if — if  Robin  went  away.  And 
the  master  of  the  house  would  again  be  a  true 
Jocelyn ! " 

The  whole  plan  seemed  perfectly  natural  and 
feasible.  Only  one  obstacle  presented  itself  like  a 
dark  shadow  on  the  brightness  of  her  dream — and 
that  was  her  own  "base"  birth.  The  brand  of  il- 
legitimacy was  upon  her, — and  whereas  once  she 
alone  had  known  what  she  judged  to  be  a  shameful 
secret,  now  two  others  shared  it  with  her — Miss 
Leigh  and  Lord  Blythe.  They  would  never  betray 
it — no ! — but  they  could  not  alter  what  unkind  fate 
had  done  for  her.  This  was  one  reason  why  she  was 
glad  that  Amadis  de  Jocelyn  had  not  as  yet  spoken 
of  their  marriage. 

"For  I  should  have  to  tell  him!"  she  thought, 
woefully — "I  should  have  to  say  that  I  am  the  il- 
legitimate daughter  of  Pierce  Armitage — and  then — 
perhaps  he  would  not  marry  me — he  might  change — 
ah  no! — he  could  not! — he  would  not! — he  loves 
me  too  dearly !  He  would  never  let  me  go — he  wants 
me  always!  We  are  all  the  world  to  each  other! — 
nothing  could  part  us  now!" 

And  so  the  time  drifted  on — and  with  its  drifting 
her  work  drifted  too,  and  only  one  all-absorbing 
passion  possessed  her  life  with  its  close  and  consum- 
ing fire.  Amadis  de  Jocelyn  was  an  expert  in  the 
seduction  of  a  soul — little  by  little  he  taught  her  to 
judge  all  men  as  worthless  save  himself,  and  all 
opinions  unwarrantable  and  ill-founded  unless  he 
confirmed  them.  And,  leading  her  away  from  the 
contemplation  of  high  visions,  he  made  her  the  blind 
worshipper  of  a  very  inadequate  idol.  She  was 
happy  in  her  faith,  and  yet  not  altogether  sure  of 
happiness.  For  there  are  two  kinds  of  love — one 
with  strong  wings  which  lift  the  soul  to  a  dazzling 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     361 

perfection  of  immortal  destiny, — the  other  with  gross 
and  heavy  chains  which  fetter  every  hope  and  aspi- 
ration and  drag  the  finest  intelligence  down  to  dark 
waste  and  nothingness. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  affairs  of  love  a  woman  is  perhaps  most  easily 
ensnared  by  a  man  who  can  combine  passion  with 
pleasantry  and  hot  pursuit  with  social  tact  and 
diplomacy.  Amadis  de  Jocelyn  was  an  adept  at  this 
kind  of  thing — he  was,  if  it  may  be  so  expressed,  a 
refined  libertine,  loving  women  from  a  purely  phys- 
ical sense  of  attraction  and  pleasure  conveyed  to 
himself,  and  obtusely  ignorant  of  the  needs  or  de- 
mands of  their  higher  natures.  From  a  mental  or 
intellectual  standpoint  all  women  to  him  were  alike, 
made  to  be  "managed"  alike,  used  alike,  and  alike 
set  aside  when  their  use  was  done  with.  The  leaven  of 
the  Jew  or  the  Turk  was  in  the  temperament  of  this 
descendant  of  a  long  line  of  French  nobles,  who  had 
gamed  their  chief  honours  by  killing  men,  ravishing 
women  and  plundering  their  neighbours'  lands — 
though  occasional  flashes  of  bravery  and  chivalry 
had  glanced  over  their  annals  in  history  like  the  light 
from  a  wandering  will  o'  the  wisp  flickering  over  a 
morass.  Gifted  in  his  art,  but  wholly  undisciplined 
in  his  nature,  he  had  lived  a  life  of  selfish  aims  to 
selfish  ends,  and  in  the  course  of  it  had  made  love 
to  many  women, — one  especially,  on  whose  devoted 
affections  he  had  preyed  like  an  insect  that  ungrate- 
fully poisons  the  flower  from  which  it  has  sucked 
the  honey.  This  woman,  driven  to  bay  at  last  by 
his  neglect  and  effrontery,  had  roused  the  scattered 
forces  of  her  pride  and  had  given  him  his  conge — and 
he  had  been  looking  about  for  a  fresh  victim  when 
he  met  Innocent.  She  was  a  complete  novelty  to 

362 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     363 

him,  and  stimulated  his  more  or  less  jaded  emotions, 
— he  found  her  quaint  and  charming  as  a  poet's 
dream  of  some  nymph  of  the  woodlands, — her  man- 
ner of  looking  at  life  and  the  things  of  life  was  so 
deliciously  simple — almost  mediaeval, — for  she  be- 
lieved that  a  man  should  die  rather  than  break  his 
word  or  imperil  his  honour,  which  to  Jocelyn  was 
such  a  primitive  state  of  things  as  to  seem  pre- 
historic. Then  there  was  her  fixed  and  absurd 
"fancy"  about  the  noble  qualities  and  manifold  vir- 
tues of  the  French  knight  who  had  served  the  Due 
d'Anjou, — and  who  had  been  to  her  from  childhood 
a  kind  of  lover  in  the  spirit, — a  being  whom  she 
had  instinctively  tried  to  serve  and  to  please;  and 
he  had  sufficient  imagination  to  understand  and 
take  advantage  of  the  feeling  aroused  in  her  when 
she  had  met  one  of  the  same  descent,  and  bearing 
the  same  name,  in  himself.  He  had  run  through  the 
gamut  of  many  emotions  and  sentiments, — he  had 
joined  one  or  two  of  the  new  schools  of  atheism  and 
modernism  started  by  certain  self-opinionated  young 
University  men,  and  in  the  earlier  stages  of  his  ca- 
reer had  in  the  cock-sure  impulse  of  youth  designed 
schemes  for  the  regeneration  of  the  world,  till  the 
usual  difficulties  presented  themselves  as  opposed  to 
such  vast  business, — he  had  associated  himself  with 
men  who  followed  what  is  called  the  "fleshly  school" 
of  poetry  and  art  generally,  and  had  evolved  from 
his  own  mentality  a  comfortable  faith  of  which  the 
chief  tenet  was  "Self  for  Self" — a  religion  which 
lifts  the  mind  no  higher  than  the  purely  animal 
plane; — and  hi  its  environment  of  physical  con- 
sciousness and  agreeable  physical  sensations,  he  was 
content  to  live. 

With  such  a  temperament  and  disposition  as  he 
possessed,  which  swayed  him  hither  and  thither  on 
the  caprice  or  impulse  of  the  moment,  his  intentions 


364  INNOCENT 

toward  Innocent  were  not  very  clear  even  to  him- 
self. When  he  had  begun  his  "amour"  with  her  he 
had  meant  it  to  go  just  as  far  as  should  satisfy  his 
own  whim  and  desire, — but  as  he  came  to  know  her 
better,  he  put  a  check  on  himself  and  hesitated  as 
one  may  hesitate  before  pulling  up  a  rose-bush  from 
its  happy  growing  place  and  flinging  it  out  on  the 
dust-heap  to  die.  She  was  so  utterly  unsuspicious 
and  unaware  of  evil,  and  she  had  placed  him  on  so 
high  a  pedestal  of  honour,  trusting  him  with  such 
perfect  and  unquestioning  faith,  that  for  very  man- 
hood's sake  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  tear  the 
veil  from  her  eyes.  Moreover  he  really  loved  her 
in  a  curious,  haphazard  way  of  love, — more  than  he 
had  ever  loved  any  one  of  her  sex, — and,  when  in 
her  presence  and  under  her  influence,  he  gained  a 
glimmering  of  consciousness  of  what  love  might 
mean  in  its  best  and  purest  sense. 

He  laughed  at  himself  however  for  this  very 
thought.  He  had  always  pooh-pooh'd  the  idea  of 
love  as  having  anything  divine  or  uplifting  in  its 
action, — nevertheless  in  his  more  sincere  moments 
he  was  bound  to  confess  that  since  he  had  known 
Innocent  his  very  art  had  gained  a  certain  breadth 
and  subtlety  which  it  had  lacked  before.  It  was  a 
pleasure  to  him  to  see  her  eyes  shine  with  pride  in 
his  work,  to  hear  her  voice  murmur  dulcet  praises 
of  his  skill,  and  for  a  time  he  took  infinite  pains  with 
all  his  subjects,  putting  the  very  best  of  himself  into 
his  drawing  and  colouring  with  results  that  were 
brilliant  and  convincing  enough  to  ensure  success  for 
all  his  efforts.  Sometimes — lost  in  a  sudden  fit  of 
musing — he  wondered  how  his  life  would  shape  it- 
self if  he  married  her?  He  had  avoided  marriage  as 
a  man  might  avoid  hanging, — considering  it,  not 
without  reason,  the  possible  ruin  of  an  artist's  greater 
career.  Among  many  men  he  had  known,  men  of 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     365 

undoubted  promise,  it  had  proved  the  fatal  step 
downward  from  the  high  to  the  low.  One  particular 
"chum"  of  his  own,  a  gifted  painter,  had  married  a 
plump  rosy  young  woman  with  "a  bit  o'  money," 
as  the  country  folks  say, — and  from  that  day  had 
been  steadily  dragged  down  to  the  domestic  level 
of  sad  and  sordid  commonplace.  Instead  of  study- 
ing form  and  colour,  he  was  called  upon  to  ex- 
amine drains  and  superintend  the  plumber,  mark 
house  linen  and  take  care  of  the  children — his  wife 
believing  in  "making  a  husband  useful."  Of  regard 
for  his  art  or  possible  fame  she  had  none, — while  his 
children  were  taught  to  regard  his  work  in  that  line 
as  less  important  than  if  he  had  been  a  bricklayer 
at  so  much  pence  the  hour. 

"Children!"  thought  Jocelyn— "Do  I  want  them? 
.  .  .  No — I  think  not!  They're  all  very  well  when 
they're  young — really  young! — two  to  five  years  old 
is  the  enchanting  age, — but,  most  unfortunately, 
they  grow!  Yes! — they  grow, — often  into  hideous 
men  and  women — a  sort  of  human  vultures  sitting 
on  their  fathers'  pockets  and  screaming  'Give!  Give!' 
The  prospect  does  not  attract  me!  And  she? — In- 
nocent? I  don't  think  I  could  bear  to  watch  that 
little  flower-like  face  gradually  enlarging  into  ma- 
tronly lines  and  spreading  into  a  double  chin !  Those 
pretty  eyes  peering  into  the  larder  and  considering 
the  appearance  of  uncooked  bacon!  Perish  the 
thought !  One  might  as  well  think  of  Shakespeare's 
Juliet  paying  the  butcher's  bill,  or  worse  still,  se- 
lecting the  butcher's  meat!  Forbid  it,  0  ye  heavens! 
Of  course  if  ideals  could  be  realised,  which  they  never 
are,  I  can  see  myself  wedded  for  pure  love,  without  a 
care,  painting  my  pictures  at  ease,  with  a  sweet 
woman  worshipping  me,  ever  at  my  beck  and  call, 
and  shielding  me  from  trouble  with  all  the  tender 
force  of  her  passionate  little  soul! — but  common- 


366  INNOCENT 

place  life  will  not  fit  itself  into  these  sort  of  beatific 
visions!  Babies,  and  the  necessary  provision  of 
food  and  clothes  and  servants — this  is  what  mar- 
riage means — love  having  sobered  down  to  a  matter- 
of-fact  conclusion.  No — no!  I  will  not  marry  her! 
It  would  be  like  catching  a  fairy  in  the  woods,  cut- 
ting off  its  sunbeam  wings  and  setting  it  to  scrub 
the  kitchen  floor!" 

It  was  curious  that  while  he  pleased  himself  with 
this  fanciful  soliloquy  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that 
he  had  already  caught  the  "fairy  in  the  woods,"  and 
ever  since  the  capture  had  been  engaged  in  cutting 
off  its  "sunbeam  wings"  with  all  a  yivisector's  scien- 
tific satisfaction.  And  in  his  imaginary  pictures  of 
what  might  have  been  if  "ideals"  were  realised,  he 
did  not  for  a  moment  conceive  himself  as  "worship- 
ping" the  woman  who  was  to  worship  him,  or  as 
being  at  her  "beck  and  call,"  or  as  shielding  her  from 
trouble — oh  no !  He  merely  considered  himself,  and 
how  she  would  care  for  him, — never  once  did  he 
consider  how  he  would  care  for  her. 

Meanwhile  things  went  on  in  an  outwardly  even 
and  uneventful  course.  Innocent  worked  steadily  to 
fulfil  certain  contracts  into  which  she  had  entered 
with  the  publishers  who  were  eager  to  obtain  as 
much  of  her  work  as  she  could  give  them, — but  she 
had  lost  heart,  and  her  once  soaring  ambition  was 
like  a  poor  bird  that  had  been  clumsily  shot  at,  and 
had  fallen  to  the  ground  with  a  broken  wing.  What 
she  had  dreamed  of  as  greatness,  now  seemed  vain 
and  futile.  The  "Amadis  de  Jocelin"  of  the  six- 
teenth century  had  taught  her  to  love  literature — 
to  believe  in  it  as  the  refiner  of  thought  and  expres- 
sion, and  to  use  it  as  a  charm  to  inspire  the  mind  and 
uplift  the  soul, — but  the  Amadis  de  Jocelyn  of  the 
twentieth  had  no  such  lessons  to  teach.  Utterly 
lacking  in  reverence  for  great  thinkers,  he  dismissed 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     36T. 

the  finest  passages  of  poetry  or  prose  from  his  con- 
sideration with  light  scorn  as  "purple  patches," 
borrowing  that  hackneyed  phrase  from  the  lower 
walks  of  the  press, — the  most  inspired  writers,  both 
of  ancient  and  modern  times,  came  equally  under  the 
careless  lash  of  his  derision, — so  that  Innocent,  ut- 
terly bewildered  by  his  sweeping  denunciation  of 
many  brilliant  and  famous  authors,  shrank  into  her 
wounded  self  with  pain,  humiliation  and  keen  dis- 
appointment, feeling  that  there  was  certainly  no 
chance  for  her  to  appeal  to  him  in  any  way  through 
the  thoughts  she  cherished  and  expressed  with 
truth  and  fervour  to  a  listening  world.  That  world 
listened — but  he  did  not! — therefore  the  world 
seemed  worthless  and  its  praise  mere  mockery.  She 
had  no  vanity  to  support  her, — she  was  not  "strong- 
minded"  enough  to  oppose  her  own  individuality 
to  that  of  the  man  she  loved.  And  so  she  began  to 
droop  a  little, — her  bright  and  ardent  spirit  sank  like 
a  sinking  flame, — much  to  the  concern  of  Miss  Leigh, 
who  watched  her  with  a  jealous  tenderness  of  love 
beyond  all  expression.  The  child  of  Pierce  Armitage, 
lawfully  or  unlawfully  begotten,  was  now  to  her  the 
one  joy  of  existence, — the  link  that  fastened  her 
more  closely  to  life, — and  she  worried  herself  se- 
cretly over  the  evident  listlessness,  fatigue  and  de- 
pression of  the  girl  who  had  so  lately  been  the  very 
embodiment  of  happiness.  But  she  did  not  like  to 
ask  questions, — she  knew  that  Innocent  had  a  very 
resolute  mind  of  her  own,  and  that  if  she  elected  to 
remain  silent  on  any  subject  whatsoever,  nothing, 
not  even  the  most  affectionate  appeal,  would  induce 
her  to  speak. 

"You  will  not  let  her  come  to  any  harm,  Pierce!" 
murmured  the  old  lady  prayerfully  one  day,  stand- 
ing before  the  portrait  of  her  former  and  faithless 
lover — "You  will  step  in  if  danger  threatens  her! — 


368  INNOCENT 

yes,  I  am  sure  you  will!  You  will  guide  and  help 
her  again  as  you  have  guided  and  helped  her  before. 
For  I  believe  you  brought  her  to  me,  Pierce! — yes, 
I  am  sure  you  did!  In  that  other  world  where  you 
are,  you  have  learned  how  much  I  loved  you  long 
ago! — how  much  I  love  you  now! — and  how  I  love 
your  child  for  your  sake  as  well  as  for  her  own !  All 
wrongs  and  mistakes  are  forgiven  and  forgotten, 
Pierce!  and  when  we  meet  again  we  shall  under- 
stand!" 

And  with  her  little  trembling  worn  hands  she  set 
a  rose,  just  opening  its  deep  red  heart-bud  into 
flower,  in  a  crystal  vase  beside  the  portrait  as  a  kind 
of  votive  offering,  with  something  of  the  same  super- 
stitious feeling  that  induces  a  devout  Roman  Cath- 
olic to  burn  a  candle  before  a  favourite  saint,  in  the 
belief  that  the  spirit  of  the  dead  man  heard  her 
words  and  would  respond  to  them. 

Just  at  this  time,  Innocent  went  about  a  good  deal 
among  the  few  friends  who  had  learned  to  know  her 
well  and  to  love  her  accordingly.  Lord  Blythe  was 
still  away,  having  prolonged  his  tour  in  order  to  en- 
joy the  beauty  of  the  Italian  lakes  in  autumn.  Sum- 
mer in  England  was  practically  over,  but  the  weather 
was  fine  and  warm  still,  and  country-house  parties, 
especially  in  Scotland,  were  the  order  of  the  day. 
The  "social  swim"  was  subsiding,  and  what  are  called 
"notable"  people  were  beginning  to  leave  town. 
Once  or  twice,  infected  by  the  general  exodus,  In- 
nocent thought  of  going  down  to  Briar  Farm  just  for 
a  few  days  as  a  surprise  to  Priscilla — but  a  feeling  for 
Robin  held  her  back.  It  would  be  needless  unkind- 
ness  to  again  vex  his  mind  with  the  pain  of  a  hope- 
less passion.  So  she  paid  a  few  casual  visits  here 
and  there,  chiefly  at  houses  where  Amadis  de  Jocelyn 
was  also  one  of  the  invited  guests.  She  was  made  the 
centre  of  a  considerable  amount  of  adulation,  which 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     369 

did  not  move  her  to  any  sort  of  self-satisfaction, 
because  in  the  background  of  her  thoughts  there 
was  always  the  light  jest  and  smile  of  her  lover,  who 
laughed  at  praise,  except,  be  it  here  said,  when  it 
was  awarded  to  himself.  Then  he  did  not  laugh — 
he  assumed  a  playful  humility  which,  being  admir- 
ably acted,  almost  passed  for  modesty.  But  if  by 
chance  he  had  to  listen  to  any  praise  of  "Ena  Armi- 
tage"  as  author  or  woman,  he  changed  the  subject 
as  soon  as  he  could  conveniently  do  so  without 
brusquerie.  And  very  gradually  it  dawned  upon  her 
that  he  took  no  pride  in  her  work  or  in  the  position 
she  had  won,  and  that  he  was  more  reluctant  than 
glad  to  hear  her  praised.  He  seemed  to  prefer  she 
should  be  unnoticed,  save  by  himself,  and  more  or 
less  submissive  to  his  will.  Had  she  been  worldly- 
wise,  she  would  by  every  action  have  moved  a  silent 
protest  against  this,  his  particular  form  of  sex-dom- 
inance, but  she  was  of  too  loving  a  nature  to  dispute 
any  right  of  command  he  chose  to  assume.  Other 
men,  younger  and  far  higher  in  place  and  position 
than  Jocelyn,  admired  her,  and  made  such  advances 
as  they  dared,  finding  her  very  coldness  attractive, 
united  as  it  was  to  such  sweetness  of  manner  as 
few  could  resist,  but  they  had  no  chance  with  her. 
Once  or  twice  some  of  her  women  friends  had 
sounded  her  on  the  subject  of  love  and  lovers,  and 
she  had  put  aside  all  their  questions  with  a  smile. 
"Love  is  not  to  be  talked  about,"  she  had  said — "It 
is  like  God,  served  best  in  silence," 

But  by  scarcely  perceptible  degrees,  busy  rumour 
got  hold  of  a  thread  or  two  of  the  clue  leading  to  the 
labyrinth  of  her  mystery, — people  nodded  mysteri- 
ously at  each  other  and  began  to  whisper  sugges- 
tions— suggestions  which  certainly  did  not  go  very 
far,  but  just  floated  in  the  air  like  bits  of  thistle- 
down. 


370  INNOCENT 

"She  is  having  her  portrait  painted,  isn't  she?" 

"Yes — by  that  man  with  the  queer  name — Amadis 
de  Jocelyn." 

"Has  she  given  him  the  commission?" 

"Oh  no!  I  believe  not.  He's  painting  it  for  the 
French  Salon." 

"Oh!" 

Then  there  would  follow  a  silence,  with  an  ex- 
change of  smiles  all  round.  And  presently  the  talk 
would  begin  again. 

"Will  it  be  a  'case/  do  you  think?" 

"A  'case'?  You  mean  a  marriage?  Oh  dear 
no !  Jocelyn  isn't  a  marrying  man." 

"Isn't  she  a  little — er — well! — a  little  taken  with 
him?" 

"Perhaps!  Very  likely!  Clever  women  are  al- 
ways fools  on  one  point — if  not  on  several!" 

"And  he?    Isn't  he  very  attentive?" 

"Not  more  so  than  he  has  been  and  is  to  dozens  of 
other  women.  He's  too  clever  to  show  her  any 
special  attention — it  might  compromise  him.  He's 
a  man  that  takes  care  of  Number  One!" 

So  the  gossip  ran, — and  only  Jocelyn  himself 
caught  wind  of  it  sufficiently  to  set  him  thinking. 
His  "affaire  de  cceur"  had  gone  far  enough, — and  he 
realised  that  the  time  had  come  for  him  to  beat  a 
retreat.  But  how  to  do  it?  The  position  was  deli- 
cate and  difficult.  If  Innocent  had  been  an  ordinary 
type  of  woman,  vain  and  selfish,  fond  of  frivolities 
and  delighting  in  new  conquests,  his  task  would  have 
been  easy, — but  with  a  girl  who  believed  in  love  as 
the  ultimatum  of  all  good,  and  who  trusted  her  lover 
with  implicit  faith  as  next  in  order  of  worship  to 
God,  what  was  to  be  done? 

"We  talk  a  vast  amount  of  sentimental  rubbish 
about  women  being  pure  and  faithful!"  he  solilo- 
quised— "But  when  they  are  pure  and  faithful  we 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     371 

are  more  bored  with  them  than  if  they  were  the 
worst  women  in  town!" 

He  had  however  one  subject  of  congratulation  for 
which  he  metaphorically  patted  himself  on  the  back 
as  being  "a  good  boy" — he  had  not  gone  to  such 
extremes  in  his  love-affair  as  could  result  in  what  is 
usually  called  "trouble"  for  the  girl.  He  had  left 
her  unscathed,  save  in  a  moral  and  spiritual  sense. 
The  sweet  body,  with  its  delicate  wavering  tints  of 
white  and  rose  was  as  the  unspoilt  sheath  of  a  lily- 
bud, — no  one  could  guess  that  within  the  sheath  the 
lily  itself  was  blighted  and  slowly  withering.  One 
may  question  whether  it  is  not  a  more  cruel  thing  to 
seduce  the  soul  than  the  body, — to  crush  all  the  fine 
faiths  and  happy  illusions  of  a  fair  mind  and  leave 
them  scorched  by  a  devastating  fire  whose  traces 
shall  never  be  obliterated.  Amadis  de  Jocelyn 
would  have  laughed  his  gayest  and  most  ironical 
laugh  at  the  bare  possibility  of  such  havoc  being 
wrought  by  the  passion  of  love  alone. 

"What's  the  use  of  loving  or  remembering  any- 
thing?" he  would  exclaim — "One  loves — one  tires 
of  love! — and  by-and-by  one  forgets  that  love  ever 
existed.  I  look  forward  to  the  time  when  my  mem- 
ory shall  dwell  chiefly  on  the  agreeable  entremets  of 
life — a  good  dinner — a  choice  cigar!  These  things 
never  bother  you  afterwards, — unless  you  eat  too 
much  or  smoke  too  much, — then  you  have  headache 
and  indigestion — distinctly  your  own  fault!  But  if 
you  love  a  woman  for  a  time  and  tire  of  her  after- 
wards she  always  bothers  you! — reminding  you  of 
the  days  when  you  'once'  loved  her  with  persistent 
and  dreadful  monotony!  I  believe  in  forgetting, — 
and  'letting  go.' ' 

With  these  sentiments,  which  were  the  true  out- 
come of  his  real  self,  it  was  not  and  never  would  be 
possible  for  him  to  conceive  that  with  certain  high 


872  INNOCENT 

and  ultra-sensitive  natures  love  is  a  greater  neces- 
sity than  life  itself,  and  that  if  they  are  deprived  of 
the  glory  they  have  been  led  to  imagine  they  pos- 
sessed, nothing  can  make  compensation  for  what  to 
them  is  eternal  loss,  coupled  with  eternal  sorrow. 

Meanwhile  Innocent's  portrait  on  which  he  had 
worked  for  a  considerable  time  was  nearly  com- 
pleted. It  was  one  of  the  best  things  he  had  ever 
done,  and  he  contemplated  it  with  a  pleasant  thrill 
of  artistic  triumph,  forgetting  the  "woman"  entirely 
in  satisfied  consideration  of  the  "subject."  As  a 
portrait  he  realised  that  it  would  be  the  crown  of 
the  next  year's  Salon,  bearing  comparison  with  any 
work  of  the  greater  modern  masters.  He  was  how- 
ever a  trifle  perplexed,  and  not  altogether  pleased  at 
the  expression,  which,  entirely  away  from  his  will 
and  intention,  had  insensibly  thrown  a  shadow  of 
sadness  on  the  face, — it  had  come  there  apparently 
of  itself,  unbidden.  He  had  been  particularly  proud 
of  his  success  in  the  drawing  of  the  girl's  extremely 
sensitive  mouth,  for  he  had,  as  he  thought,  caught 
the  fleeting  sweetness  of  the  smile  which  was  one  of 
her  greatest  charms, — but  now,  despite  his  pains, 
that  smile  seemed  to  lose  itself  in  the  sorrow  and 
pathos  of  an  unspoken  reproach,  which,  though  en- 
thralling and  appealing  to  the  beholder  as  the  look 
of  the  famous  "Mona  Lisa,"  had  fastened  itself  as 
it  were  on  the  canvas  without  the  painter's  act  or 
consent.  He  was  annoyed  at  this,  yet  dared  not 
touch  it  in  any  attempt  to  alter  what  asserted  itself 
as  convincingly  finished, — for  the  picture  was  a  fine 
work  of  art  and  he  realised  that  it  would  add  to  his 
renown. 

"I  shall  not  name  it  as  the  portrait  of  a  living 
woman,"  he  said  to  himself — "I  shall  call  it  simply 
— 'Innocent.' ' 

As  he  thought  this,  the  subject  of  the  painting 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     373 

herself  entered  the  studio.  He  turned  at  the  sound 
of  the  door  opening,  and  caught  a  strange  new  im- 
pression of  her, — an  impression  that  moved  him  to 
a  touch  of  something  like  fear.  Was  she  going  to 
be  tiresome,  he  wondered? — would  she  make  him  a 
"scene" — or  do  something  odd  as  women  generally 
did  when  their  feelings  escaped  control?  Her  face 
was  very  pale — her  eyes  startlingly  bright, — and  the 
graceful  white  summer  frock  she  wore,  with  soft  old 
lace  falling  about  it,  a  costume  completed  in  per- 
fection by  a  picturesque  Leghorn  hat  bound  with 
black  velvet  and  adorned  with  a  cluster  of  pale 
roses,  made  her  a  study  worthy  the  brush  of  many  a 
greater  artist  than  Amadis  de  Jocelyn.  His  quick 
eye  noted  every  detail  of  her  dainty  dress  and  fair 
looks  as  he  went  to  meet  her  and  took  her  hi  his 
arms.  She  clung  to  him  for  a  moment — and  he  felt 
her  tremble. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked,  with  unconscious 
sharpness — "Is  anything  wrong?" 

She  put  him  away  from  her  tenderly  and  looked 
up  smiling — but  there  was  a  sparkling  dew  in  her 
eyes. 

"No,  my  Amadis!     Nothing  wrong!" 

He  heaved  a  quick  sigh  of  relief. 

"Thank  heaven !  You  looked  at  me  as  if  you  had 
a  grievance — all  women  have  grievances — but  they 
should  keep  them  to  themselves." 

She  gave  the  slightest  little  shrug  of  her  shoulders ; 
then  went  and  sat  on  the  highest  step  of  the  familiar 
dais  where  she  had  posed  for  her  picture,  and  waited 
a  moment.  He  did  not  at  once  come  to  sit  beside 
her  as  he  had  so  often  done — he  stood  opposite  his 
easel,  looking  at  her  portrait  but  not  at  her. 

"I  have  no  grievance,"  she  said  then,  making  an 
effort  to  steady  her  voice,  which  trembled  despite 
herself — "And  if  I  had  I  should  not  vex  you  with  it. 


374  INNOCENT 

But — when  you  can  quite  spare  the  time  I  should 
like  a  quiet  little  talk  with  you." 

He  looked  round  at  her  with  a  kind  smile. 

"Just  what  I  want  to  have  with  you !  'Les  beaux 
esprits  se  rencontrent' — and  we  both  want  exactly 
the  same  thing!  Dear  little  girl,  how  sensible  you 
are !  Of  course  we  must  talk — about  the  future." 

A  lovely  radiance  lit  up  her  face. 

"That  is  what  I  thought  you  would  wish,"  she 
said — "Now  that  the  portrait  is  finished." 

"Well, — all  but  a  touch  or  two,"  he  rejoined — 
"I  shall  ask  a  few  people  to  come  here  and  see  it 
before  it  leaves  London.  Then  it  must  be  property 
packed  in  readiness  for  Paris  before — before  I 
go " 

o 

Her  eyes  opened  in  sudden  terrified  wonderment. 

"Before  you  go — where?" 

He  laughed  a  little  awkwardly. 

"Oh — only  a  short  journey — on  business — I  will 
explain  when  we  have  our  talk  out — not  now — in  a 
day  or  two " 

He  left  the  easel,  and  coming  to  where  she  sat, 
lifted  her  in  his  arms  and  folded  her  close  to  his 
breast. 

"You  sweet  soul!"  he  murmured — "You  little 
Innocent!  You  are  so  pretty  to-day! — you  madden 
me -" 

He  unfastened  her  hat  and  put  it  aside, — then 
drawing  her  closer,  showered  quick  eager  kisses  on 
her  lips,  eyes  and  warm  soft  neck.  He  felt  her 
heart  beating  wildly  and  her  whole  body  trembling 
under  his  gust  of  passion. 

"You  love  me- — you  truly  love  me?"  she  ques- 
tioned, between  little  sighs  of  pleasure — "Tell  me! — 
are  you  sure?" 

"Am  I  not  proving  it?"  he  answered — "Does  a 
man  behave  like  this  if  he  does  not  love?" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     375 

"Ah,  yes!"  And  she  looked  up  with  a  wild  pit- 
eousness  in  her  sweet  eyes — "A  man  will  behave 
like  this  to  any  woman!" 

He  loosened  his  clasp  of  her,  astonished — then 
laughed. 

"Where  did  you  learn  that?"  he  asked— "Who 
told  you  men  were  so  volatile?" 

"No  one!" — and  her  caressing  arms  fell  away 
from  him — "My  Amadis,  you  find  it  pleasant  to  kiss 
and  to  embrace  me  for  the  moment — but  perhaps 
not  always  will  you  care!  Love — real  love  is  dif- 
ferent  " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  love?"  he  asked  still 
smiling. 

She  sighed. 

"I  can  hardly  tell  you,"  she  said — "But  one  thing 
I  do  know — love  would  never  hurt  or  wrong  the 
thing  it  loved!  Words,  kisses,  embraces — they  are 
just  the  sweet  outflow  of  a  great  deep! — but  love  is 
above  and  beyond  all  these,  like  an  angel  living  with 
God!" 

He  was  silent. 

She  came  up  to  him  and  laid  her  little  hand  tun- 
idly  on  his  arm. 

"It  is  time  we  were  quite  sure  of  that  angel,  my 
Amadis!"  she  said — "We  are  sure— but " 

He  looked  her  full  and  quietly  in  the  eyes. 

"Yes,  child!"  he  answered — "It  is  time!  But  I 
cannot  talk  about  angels  or  anything  else  just  now 
— it  is  growing  late  in  the  afternoon  and  you  must 
not  stay  here  too  long.  Come  to-morrow  or  next 
day,  and  we'll  consult  together  as  to  what  is  best  to 
be  done  for  your  happiness " 

"For  yours!"  she  interposed,  gently. 

He  smiled,  curiously. 

"Very  well!    As  you  will!    For  mine!" 


CHAPTER  X 

LORD  BLYTHE  stood  at  the  open  window  of  his 
sitting-room  in  the  Grand  Hotel  at  Bellaggio — 
a  window  opening  out  to  a  broad  balcony  and  com- 
manding one  of  the  most  enchanting  views  of  the 
lake  and  mountains  ever  created  by  Divine  Benefi- 
cence for  the  delight  of  man.  The  heavenly  scene, 
warm  with  rich  tints  of  morning  in  Italy,  glowed 
like  a  jewel  in  the  sun :  picturesque  boats  with  little 
red  and  blue  awnings  rocked  at  the  edge  of  the  calm 
lake,  in  charge  of  their  bronzed  and  red-capped  boat- 
men, waiting  for  hire, — the  air  was  full  of  fragrance, 
and  every  visible  thing  appealed  to  beauty-loving 
eyes  with  exquisite  and  irresistible  charm.  His  at- 
tention, however,  had  wandered  far  from  the  en- 
joyable prospect, — he  was  reading  and  re-reading  a 
letter  he  had  just  received  from  Miss  Leigh,  in  which 
certain  passages  occurred  which  caused  him  some 
uneasiness.  On  leaving  England  he  had  asked  her 
to  write  regularly,  giving  him  all  the  news  of  Inno- 
cent, and  she  had  readily  undertaken  what  to  her 
was  a  pleasing  duty.  His  thoughts  were  constantly 
with  the  little  house  in  Kensington,  where  the  young 
daughter  of  his  dead  friend  worked  so  patiently  to 
bring  forth  the  fruits  of  her  genius  and  live  inde- 
pendently by  their  results,  and  his  intense  sympathy 
for  the  difficult  position  in  which  she  had  been  placed 
through  no  fault  of  her  own  and  the  courage  with 
which  she  had  surmounted  it,  was  fast  deepening 
into  affection.  He  rather  encouraged  this  sentiment 
in  himself  with  the  latent  hope  that  possibly  when 

376 


he  returned  to  England  she  might  still  be  persuaded 
to  accept  the  position  he  was  so  ready  to  offer  her — • 
that  of  daughter  to  him  and  heiress, — and  just  now 
he  was  troubled  by  an  evident  anxiety  which  be- 
trayed itself  in  Miss  Leigh's  letter — anxiety  which 
she  plainly  did  her  best  to  conceal,  but  which  nev- 
ertheless made  itself  apparent. 

"The  dear  child  works  incessantly,"  she  wrote, 
"but  she  is  very  quiet  and  seems  easily  tired.  She 
is  not  as  bright  as  she  used  to  be,  and  looks  very 
pale,  so  that  I  fear  she  is  doing  too  much,  though 
she  says  she  is  perfectly  well  and  happy.  We  had  a 
call  from  Mr.  John  Harrington  the  other  afternoon 
—I  think  you  know  him — and  he  seemed  quite  to 
think  with  me  that  she  is  over-working  herself.  He 
suggested  that  I  should  persuade  her  to  go  for  a 
change  somewhere,  either  with  me  or  with  other 
friends.  I  wonder  if  you  would  care  for  us  to  join 
you  at  the  Italian  Lakes?  If  you  would  I  might 
be  able  to  manage  it.  I  have  not  mentioned  the 
idea  to  her  yet,  as  I  know  she  is  finishing  some  work 
— but  she  tells  me  it  will  all  be  done  in  a  few  days, 
and  that  then  she  will  take  a  rest.  I  hope  she  will, 
for  I'm  sure  she  needs  it." 
Another  part  of  the  letter  ran  as  follows : — 
"I  rather  hesitate  to  mention  it,  but  I  think  so 
many  prolonged  sittings  for  her  portrait  to  that 
painter  with  the  strange  name,  Amadis  de  Jocelyn, 
have  rather  tired  her  out.  The  picture  is  finished 
now,  and  I  and  a  few  friends  went  to  see  it  the  other 
day.  It  is  a  most  beautiful  portrait,  but  very  sad ! — 
and  it  is  wonderful  how  the  likeness  of  her  father 
as  he  was  in  his  young 'days  comes  out  in  her  face! 
She  and  Mr.  de  Jocelyn  are  very  intimate  friends — 
and  some  people  say  he  is  in  love  with  her!  Per- 
haps he  may  be! — but  I  do  hope  she  is  not  in  love 
with  him!" 


378  INNOCENT 

Lord  Blythe  took  off  his  spectacles,  folded  up  the 
letter  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  Then  he  looked  out 
towards  the  lake  and  the  charming  picture  it  pre- 
sented. How  delightful  it  would  be  to  see  Innocent 
in  one  of  those  dainty  boats  scattered  about  near 
the  water's  edge,  revelling  with  all  the  keenness  of 
a  bright,  imaginative  temperament  in  the  natural 
loveliness  around  her!  Young,  and  with  the  promise 
of  a  brilliant  career  opening  out  before  her,  happi- 
ness seemed  ready  and  waiting  to  bless  and  to  adorn 
the  life  of  the  little  deserted  girl  who,  left  alone  in 
the  world,  had  nevertheless  managed  to  win  the 
world's  hearing  through  the  name  she  had  made  for 
herself — yet  now — yes! — now  there  was  the  cruel 
suggestion  of  a  shadow — an  ugly  darkness  like  a 
black  cloud,  blotting  the  fairness  of  a  blue  sky, — 
and  Blythe  felt  an  uncomfortable  sense  of  premoni- 
tion and  wrong  as  the  thought  of  Amadis  de  Jocelyn 
came  into  his  head  and  stayed  there.  What  was  he 
that  he  should  creep  into  the  unspoiled  sphere  of 
a  woman's  opening  life?  A  painter,  something  of 
a  genius  in  his  line,  but  erratic  and  unstable  in  his 
character, — known  more  or  less  for  several  "affairs 
of  gallantry"  which  had  slipped  off  his  easy  con- 
science like  water  off  a  duck's  back, — not  a  highly 
cultured  man  by  any  means,  because  ignorant  of 
many  of  the  finer  things  in  art  and  letters,  and 
without  any  positively  assured  position.  Yet,  un- 
doubtedly a  man  of  strong  physical  magnetism  and 
charm — fascinating  in  his  manner,  especially  on 
first  acquaintance,  and  capable  of  overthrowing 
many  a  stronger  citadel  than  the  tender  heart  of 
a  sensitive  girl  like  Innocent,  who  by  a  most  curious 
mischance  had  been  associated  all  her  life  with  the 
romance  of  his  mediaeval  name  and  lineage. 

"Yes — of  course  she  must  come  out  here,"  Blythe 
decided,  after  a  few  minutes'  cogitation.  "I'll  send 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    379 

a  wire  to  Miss  Leigh  this  morning  and  follow  it  up 
by  a  letter  to  the  child  herself,  urging  her  to  join 
me.  The  change  and  distraction  will  perhaps  save 
her  from  too  much  association  with  Jocelyn, — I  do 
not  trust  that  man — never  have  trusted  him!  Poor 
little  girl!  She  shall  not  have  her  spirit  broken  if 
I  can  help  it." 

He  stayed  yet  another  few  minutes  at  the  open 
window,  and  taking  out  a  cigar  from  his  case  began 
to  light  it.  While  doing  this  his  eye  was  suddenly 
caught  by  the  picturesque,  well-knit  figure  of  a  man 
sitting  easily  on  a  step  near  the  clustering  boats 
gathered  close  to  the  hotel's  special  landing  place. 
He  was  apparently  one  of  the  many  road-side  artists 
one  meets  everywhere  about  the  Italian  Lakes,  ready 
to  paint  a  sunset  or  moonlight  on  Como  or  Maggiore 
on  commission  at  short  notice  for  a  few  francs.  He 
was  not  young — his  white  hair  and  grizzled  mous- 
tache marked  the  unpleasing  passage  of  resistless 
time, — yet  there  was  something  lissom  and  graceful 
about  him  that  suggested  a  kind  of  youth  in  age. 
His  attire  consisted  of  much  worn  brown  trousers 
and  a  loose  white  shirt  kept  in  place  by  a  red  belt, 
— his  shirt  sleeves  were  rolled  up  to  the  elbow,  dis- 
playing thin  brown  muscular  arms,  expressive  of 
energy,  and  he  wore  a  battered  brown  hat  which 
might  once  have  been  of  the  so-called  "Homburg" 
shape,  but  which  now  resembled  nothing  ever  seen 
in  the  way  of  ordinary  head-gear.  He  was  busily 
engaged  in  sketching  a  view  of  the  lake  and  the  op- 
posite mountains,  evidently  to  the  order  of  some 
fashionably  dressed  women  who  stood  near  him 
watching  the  rapid  and  sure  movements  of  his 
brush — he  had  his  box  of  water-colours  beside  him, 
and  smiled  and  talked  as  he  worked.  Lord  Ely  the 
watched  him  with  lively  interest,  while  enjoying  the 
first  whiffs  of  his  lately  lit  cigar. 


380  INNOCENT 

"A  clever  chap,  evidently!"  he  thought.  "These 
Italians  are  all  artists  and  poets  at  heart.  When 
those  women  have  finished  with  him  I'll  get  him  to 
do  a  sketch  for  me  to  send  to  Innocent — just  to 
show  her  the  loveliness  of  the  place.  She'll  be  de- 
lighted !  and  it  may  tempt  her  to  come  here." 

He  waited  a  few  minutes  longer,  till  he  saw  the 
artist  hand  over  the  completed  drawing  to  his  lady 
patrons,  one  of  whom  paid  him  with  a  handful  of 
silver  coin.  Something  in  the  bearing  and  attitude 
of  the  man  as  he  rose  from  the  step  where  he  had 
been  seated  and  lifted  his  shapeless  brown  hat  to 
his  customers  in  courteous  acknowledgment  of  their 
favours  as  they  left  him,  struck  Blythe  with  an  odd 
sense  of  familiarity. 

"I  must  have  seen  him  somewhere  before,"  he 
thought.  "In  Venice,  perhaps — or  Florence — these 
fellows  are  like  gipsies,  they  wander  about  every- 
where." 

He  sauntered  out  of  the  Hotel  into  the  garden 
and  from  the  garden  down  to  the  landing-place, 
where  he  slowly  approached  the  artist,  who  was 
standing  with  his  back  towards  him,  slipping  his 
lately  earned  francs  into  his  trouser  pocket.  Sev- 
eral sample  drawings  were  set  up  in  view  beside 
him, — lovely  little  studies  of  lake  and  mountain 
which  would  have  done  honour  to  many  a  Royal 
Academician,  and  Blythe  paused,  looking  at  these 
with  wonder  and  admiration  before  speaking,  un- 
aware that  the  artist  had  taken  a  backward  glance 
at  him  of  swift  and  more  or  less  startled  recog- 
nition. 

"You  are  an  admirable  painter,  my  friend!"  he 
said,  at  last — speaking  in  Italian  of  which  he  was  a 
master.  "Your  drawings  are  worth  much  more  than 
you  are  asking  for  them.  Will  you  do  one  specially 
for  me?" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    381 

"I've  done  a  good  many  for  you  in  my  time, 
Blythe!"  was  the  half-laughing  answer,  given  in 
perfect  English.  "But  I  don't  mind  doing  another." 

And  he  turned  round,  pushing  his  cap  off  his 
brows,  and  showing  a  wonderfully  handsome  face, 
worn  with  years  and  privation,  but  fine  and  noble- 
featured  and  full  of  the  unquenchable  light  which 
is  given  by  an  indomitable  and  enduring  spirit. 

Lord  Blythe  staggered  back  and  caught  at  the 
handrail  of  the  landing  steps  to  save  himself  from 
falling. 

"My  God!"  he  gasped.  "You!  You,  of  all  men 
in  the  world!  You! — you,  Pierce  Armitage!" 

And  he  stared  wildly,  his  brain  swimming, — his 
pulses  beating  hammer-strokes — was  it — could  it  be 
possible?  The  artist  in  brown  trousers  and  white 
shirt  straightened  himself,  and  instinctively  sought 
to  assume  a  less  tramp-like  appearance,  looking  at 
his  former  friend  meanwhile  with  a  half-glad,  half- 
doubtful  air. 

"Well,  well,  Dick!"  he  said,  after  a  moment's 
pause — "Don't  take  it  badly  that  you  find  me  pur- 
suing my  profession  in  this  peripatetic  style!  It's 
a  nice  life — better  than  being  a  pavement  artist  in 
Pimlico !  You  mustn't  be  afraid !  I'm  not  going  to 
claim  acquaintance  with  you  before  the  public  eye 
— you,  a  peer  of  the  realm,  Dick !  No,  no !  I  won't 
shame  you  .  .  ." 

"Shame  me!"  Blythe  sprang  forward  and  caught 
his  hand  in  a  close  warm  grip.  "Never  say  that, 
Pierce!  You  know  me  better!  Thank  God  you  are 
here — alive! — thank  God  I  have  met  you! " 

He  stopped,  too  overcome  to  say  another  word, 
and  wrung  the  hand  he  held  with  unconscious  fer- 
vour, tears  springing  to  his  eyes.  The  two  looked 
full  at  each  other,  and  Armitage  smiled  a  little  con- 
fusedly. 


382  INNOCENT 

"Why,  Dick!"  he  began, — then  turning  his  head 
quickly  he  glanced  up  at  the  clear  blue  sky  to  hide 
and  to  master  his  own  emotion — "I  believe  we  feel 
like  a  couple  of  sentimental  undergrads  still,  Dick, 
in  spite  of  age  and  infirmities!" 

He  laughed  forcedly,  while  Blythe,  at  last  releas- 
ing his  hand,  took  him  by  the  arm,  regardless  of 
the  curious  observation  of  some  of  the  hotel  guests 
who  were  strolling  about  the  garden  and  terraces. 

"Come  with  me,  Pierce,"  he  said,  in  hurried  ner- 
vous accents — "I  have  news  for  you — such  news  as 
you  cannot  guess  or  imagine.  Put  away  all  those 
drawings  and  come  inside  the  hotel — to  my 
room " 

"What?  In  this  guise?"  and  Armitage  shook 
his  head — "My  dear  fellow,  your  enthusiasm  is 
running  away  with  you!  Besides — there  is  some 
one  else  to  consider " 

"Some  one  else?  Whom  do  you  mean?"  de- 
manded Blythe  with  visible  impatience. 

Armitage  hesitated. 

"Your  wife,"  he  said,  at  last. 

Blythe  looked  him  steadily  in  the  eyes. 

"My  wife  is  dead." 

"Dead!"  Armitage  loosened  his  arm  from  the 
other's  hold,  and  stood  inert  as  though  he  had  re- 
ceived a  numbing  blow.  "Dead!  When  did  she 
die?" 

In  a  few  words  Blythe  told  him. 

Armitage  heard  in  silence.  Mechanically  he  be- 
gan to  collect  his  drawings  and  put  them  in  a  port- 
folio. His  face  was  pale  under  its  sunbrowned  tint, 
— his  expression  almost  tragic.  Lord  Blythe  watched 
him  for  a  moment,  moved  by  strong  heart-beats  of 
affection  and  compassion. 

"Pierce,"  he  then  said,  in  a  low  tone — "I  know 
everything!" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     383 

Armitage  turned  on  him  sharply. 

"You— you  know?— What?— How? " 

"She — Maude — told  me  all,"  said  Blythe,  gently — 
"And  I  think — your  wrong  to  her — was  not  so  blame- 
worthy as  her  wrong  to  you!  But  I  have  some- 
thing to  tell  you  of  one  whose  wrong  is  greater  than 
hers  or  yours — one  who  is  Innocent!" 

He  emphasised  the  name,  and  Armitage  started 
as  though  struck  with  a  whip. 

"Innocent!"  he  muttered — "The  child — yes! — 
but  I  couldn't  make  enough  to  send  money  for  it 
after  a  while — I  paid  as  long  as  I  could " 

He  trembled, — his  fine  eyes  had  a  strained  look  of 
anguish  in  them. 

"Not  dead  too?"  he  said — "Surely  not — the  people 
at  the  farm  had  a  good  name — they  would  not  be 
cruel  to  a  child ' 

Blythe  gripped  him  by  the  arm. 

"Come,"  he  said — "We  cannot  talk  here — there 
are  too  many  people  about — I  must  have  you  to 
myself.  Never  mind  your  appearance — many  an 
R.  A.  cuts  a  worse  figure  than  you  do  for  the  sake 
of  'pose'!  You  are  entirely  picturesque" — and  he 
relieved  his  pent-up  feelings  by  a  laugh — "And 
there's  nothing  strange  in  your  coming  to  my  room 
to  see  the  particular  view  I  want  from  my  win- 
dows." 

Thus  persuaded,  Armitage  gathered  his  drawings 
and  painting  materials  together,  and  followed  his 
friend,  who  quickly  led  the  way  into  the  Hotel.  The 
gorgeously  liveried  hall-porter  nodded  familiarly  to 
the  artist,  whom  he  had  seen  for  several  seasons 
selling  his  work  on  the  landing,  and  made  a  good- 
natured  comment  on  his  "luck"  in  having  secured 
the  patronage  of  a  rich  English  "Milor,"  but  other- 
wise little  notice  was  taken  of  the  incongruous 
couple  as  they  passed  up  the  stairs  to  "Milor's"  pri- 


384  INNOCENT 

vate  rooms  on  the  first  floor,  where,  as  soon  as  they 
entered,  Blythe  shut  and  locked  the  door. 

"Now,  Pierce,  I  have  you!"  he  said,  affectionately 
taking  him  by  the  shoulders  and  pushing  him 
towards  a  chair.  "Why,  in  heaven's  name,  did  you 
never  let  me  know  you  were  alive?  Everyone 
thought  you  were  dead  years  and  years  ago!" 

Armitage  sat  down,  and  taking  off  his  cap,  passed 
'his  hand  through  his  thick  crop  of  silvery  hair. 

"I  spread  that  report  myself,"  he  said.  "I  wanted 
to  get  out  of  it  all — to  give  up! — to  forget  that  such 
a  place  as  London  existed.  I  was  sick  to  death  of 
it! — of  its  conventions,  and  vile  hypocrisies — its 
'bounders'  in  art  as  in  everything  else! — besides,  I 
should  have  been  in  the  way — Maude  was  tired  of 
me " 

He  broke  off,  with  an  abstracted  look. 

"You  know  all  about  it,  you  say?"  he  went  on 
after  a  pause — "She  told  you " 

"She  told  me  the  night  she  died,"  answered  Blythe 
quietly — "After  a  silence  of  nearly  twenty  years!" 

Armitage  gave  a  short,  sharp  sigh. 

"Women  are  strange  creatures ! "  he  said.  "I  don't 
think  they  know  when  they  are  loved.  I  loved  her 
— much  more  than  she  knew, — she  seemed  to  me  the 
most  beautiful  thing  on  earth ! — and  when  she  asked 
me  to  run  away  with  her " 

"She  asked  you?" 

"Yes — of  course!  Do  you  think  I  would  have 
taken  her  against  her  own  wish  and  will?  She 
suggested  and  planned  the  whole  thing — and  I  was 
mad  for  her  at  the  time — even  now  those  weeks  we 
passed  together  seem  to  me  the  only  real  living  of 
my  life!  I  thought  she  loved  me  as  I  loved  her — 
and  if  she  had  married  me,  as  I  begged  her  to  do,  I 
believe  I  should  have  done  something  as  a  painter, 
— something  great,  I  mean.  But  she  got  tired  of  my 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    385 

'art-jargon/  as  she  called  it — and  she  couldn't  bear 
the  idea  of  having  to  rough  it  a  bit  before  I  could 
hope  to  make  any  large  amount  of  money.  Then  I 
was  disappointed — and  I  told  her  so — and  she  was 
disappointed,  and  she  told  me  so — and  we  quarrelled 
— but  when  I  heard  a  child  was  to  be  born,  I  urged 
her  again  to  marry  me " 

"And  she  refused?"  interposed  Ely  the. 

"She  refused.  She  said  she  intended  to  make  a 
rich  marriage  and  live  in  luxury.  And  she  declared 
that  if  I  ever  loved  her  at  all,  the  only  way  to  prove 
it  was  to  get  rid  of  the  child.  I  don't  think  she  would 
have  cared  if  I  had  been  brute  enough  to  kill  it." 

Blythe  gave  a  gesture  of  horror. 

"Don't  say  that,  man!     Don't  think  it!" 

Armitage  sighed. 

"Well,  I  can't  help  it,  Blythe!  Some  women  go 
callous  when  they've  had  their  fling.  Maude  was 
like  that.  She  didn't  care  for  me  any  more, — she 
saw  nothing  in  front  of  her  but  embarrassment  and 
trouble  if  her  affair  with  me  was  found  out — and  as 
it  was  all  in  my  hands  I  did  the  best  I  could  think  of, 
— took  the  child  away  and  placed  it  with  kind  coun- 
try folks — and  removed  myself  from  England  and 
out  of  Maude's  way  altogether.  The  year  after  I 
came  abroad  I  heard  she  had  married  you, — rather 
an  unkind  turn  of  fate,  you  being  my  oldest  friend! 
and  this  was  what  made  me  resolve  to  'die' — that 
is,  to  be  reported  dead,  so  that  she  might  have  no 
misgivings  about  me  or  my  turning  up  unexpectedly 
to  cause  you  any  annoyance.  I  determined  to  lose 
myself  and  my  name  too— no  one  knows  me  here  as 
Pierce  Armitage, — I'm  Pietro  Corri  for  all  the  Eng- 
lish amateur  art-lovers  in  Italy!" 

He  laughed  rather  bitterly. 

"I  think  I  lost  a  good  deal  more  than  myself  and 
my  name!"  he  went  on.  "I  believe  if  I  had  stayed 


386  INNOCENT 

in  England  I  should  have  won  something  of  a  repu- 
tation. But — you  see,  I  really  loved  Maude — in  a 
stupid  man's  way  of  love, — I  didn't  want  to  worry 
her  or  remind  her  of  her  phase  of  youthful  madness 
with  me—or  cause  scandal  to  her  in  any  way " 

"But  did  you  ever  think  of  the  child?"  inter- 
rupted Blythe,  suddenly. 

Armitage  looked  up. 

"Think  of  it?  Of  course  I  did!  The  place  where 
I  left  it  was  called  Briar  Farm, — a  wonderful  old 
sixteenth-century  house — I  made  a  drawing  of  it 
once  when  the  apple-blossom  was  out — and  the 
owner  of  it,  known  as  Farmer  Jocelyn,  had  a  wonder- 
ful reputation  hi  the  neighbourhood  for  integrity  and 
kindness.  I  left  the  child  with  him — one  stormy 
night  in  autumn — saying  I  would  come  back  for  it — 
of  course  I  never  did — but  for  twelve  years  I  sent 
money  for  it  from  different  places  in  Europe — and 
before  I  left  England  I  told  Maude  where  it  was,  in 
case  she  ever  wanted  to  see  it — not  that  such  an 
idea  would  ever  occur  to  her!  I  thought  the  prob- 
abilities were  that  the  farmer,  having  no  children  of 
his  own,  would  be  likely  to  adopt  the  one  left  on 
his  hands,  and  that  she  would  grow  up  a  happy, 
healthy  country  lass,  without  a  care,  and  marry  some 
good,  sound,  simple  rustic  fellow.  But  you  know 
everything,  I  suppose! — or  so  your  looks  imply.  Is 
the  child  alive?" 

Lord  Blythe  held  up  his  hand. 

"Now,  Pierce,  it  is  my  turn,"  he  said — "Your 
share  in  the  story  I  already  knew  in  part — but  one 
thing  you  have  not  told  me — one  wrong  you  have 
not  confessed." 

"Oh,  there  are  a  thousand  wrongs  I  have  com- 
mitted," said  Armitage,  with  a  slight,  weary  gesture. 
"Life  and  love  have  both  disappointed  me — and  I 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    387 

suppose  when  that  sort  of  thing  happens  a  man  goes 
more  or  less  to  the  dogs — 

"Life  and  love  have  disappointed  a  good  many 
folks,"  said  Blythe — "Women  perhaps  more  than 
men.  And  one  woman  especially,  who  hardly  mer- 
ited disappointment — one  who  loved  you  very  truly, 
Pierce! — have  you  any  idea  who  it  is  I  mean?" 

Armitage  moved  restlessly, — a  slight  flush  col- 
oured his  face. 

"You  mean  Lavinia  Leigh?"  he  said — "Yes — I  be- 
haved like  a  cad.  I  know  it!  But — I  could  not 
help  myself.  Maude  drew  me  on  with  her  lovely 
eyes  and  smile!  And  to  think  she  is  dead! — all  that 
beauty  in  the  grave! — cold  and  mouldering!"  He 
covered  his  eyes  with  one  hand,  and  a  visible  tremor 
shook  him.  "Somehow  I  have  always  fancied  her 
as  young  as  ever  and  endowed  with  a  sort  of  earthly 
immortality!  She  was  so  bright,  so  imperious,  so 
queen-like!  You  ask  me  why  I  did  not  let  you 
know  I  was  living?  Blythe,  I  would  have  died  in 
very  truth  by  my  own  hand  rather  than  trouble  her 
peace  in  her  married  life  with  you!"  He  paused — 
then  glanced  up  at  his  friend,  with  the  wan  flicker 
of  a  smile — "And — do  you  know  Lavinia  Leigh?" 

"I  do,"  answered  Blythe— "I  know  and  honour 
her!  And — your  daughter  is  with  her  now!" 

Armitage  sprang  up. 

"My  daughter!  With  Lavinia!  No! — impossible 
— incredible ! " 

"Sit  down  again,  Pierce,"  and  Lord  Blythe  him- 
self drew  up  a  chair  close  to  Armitage — "Sit  down 
and  be  patient!  You  know  the  lines — There's  a 
divinity  that  shapes  our  ends,  rough-hew  them  how 
we  will'?  Divinity  has  worked  in  strange  ways  with 
you,  Pierce! — and  still  more  strangely  with  your 
child.  Will  you  listen  while  I  tell  you  all?" 

Armitage  sank  into  his  chair, — his  hands  trembled 


388  INNOCENT 

— he  was  greatly  agitated, — and  his  eyes  were  fixed 
on  his  friend's  face  in  an  eager  passion  of  appeal. 

"I  will  listen  as  if  you  were  an  angel  speaking, 
Dick!"  he  said.  "Let  me  know  the  worst! — or  the 
best — of  everything!" 

And  Blythe,  in  a  low  quiet  voice,  thrilled  in  its 
every  accent  by  the  affection  and  sympathy  of  his 
honest  spirit,  told  him  the  whole  story  of  Innocent — 
of  her  sweetness  and  prettiness— of  her  grace  and 
genius — of  the  sudden  and  brilliant  fame  she  had 
won  as  "Ena  Armitage" — of  the  brief  and  bitter 
knowledge  she  had  been  given  of  her  mother — of  her 
strange  chance  in  going  straight  to  the  house  of  Miss 
Leigh  when  she  travelled  alone  and  unguided  from 
the  country  to  London — and  lastly  of  his  own  ad- 
miration for  her  courage  and  independence,  and  his 
desire  to  adopt  her  as  a  daughter  in  order  to  leave 
her  his  fortune. 

"But  now  you  have  turned  up,  Pierce,  I  resign 
my  hopes  in  that  direction!"  he  concluded,  with  a 
smile.  "You  are  her  father! — and  you  may  well  be 
proud  of  such  a  daughter!  And  there  is  a  duty 
staring  you  in  the  face — a  duty  towards  her  which, 
when  once  performed,  will  release  her  from  a  good 
deal  of  pain  and  perplexity — you  know  what  it  is?" 

"Rather!"  and  Armitage  rose  and  began  pacing 
to  and  fro — "To  acknowledge  and  legalise  her  as 
my  child!  I  can  do  this  now — and  I  will!  I  can 
declare  she  was  born  in  wedlock,  now  Maude  is  dead 
— for  no  one  will  ever  know.  The  real  identity  of 
her  mother" — he  paused  and  came  up  to  Blythe, 
resting  his  hands  on  his  shoulders — "the  real  iden- 
tity of  her  mother  is  and  shall  ever  be  our  secret!" 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  Armitage's  mellow 
musical  voice  again  broke  the  silence. 

"I  can  never  thank  you,  Blythe!"  he  said — "You 
blessed  old  man  as  you  are!  You  seem  to  me  like 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    389 

a  god  disguised  in  a  tweed  suit !  You  have  changed 
life  for  me  altogether!  I  must  cease  to  be  a  wan- 
dering scamp  on  the  face  of  the  earth! — I  must  try 
to  be  worthy  of  my  fair  and  famous  daughter!  How 
strange  it  seems!  Little  Innocent! — the  poor  baby 
I  left  to  the  mercies  of  a  farm-yard  training! — for 
her  I  must  become  respectable!  I  think  I'll  even 
try  to  paint  a  great  picture,  so  that  she  isn't  ashamed 
of  her  Dad!  What  do  you  say?  Will  you  help 
me?" 

He  laughed, — but  there  were  great  tears  in  his 
eyes.  They  clasped  hands  silently. 

Then  Lord  Blythe  spoke  in  a  light  tone. 

"I'll  wire  to  Miss  Leigh  this  morning,"  he  said. 
"I'll  ask  her  to  come  out  here  with  Innocent  as  soon 
as  possible.  I  won't  break  the  news  of  you  to  them 
yet — it  would  quite  overpower  Miss  Leigh — it  might 
almost  kill  her ' 

"Why,  how?"  asked  Armitage. 

"With  joy!"  answered  Blythe.  "Hers  is  a  faith- 
ful soul!" 

He  waited  a  moment — then  went  on: 

"I'll  prepare  the  way  cautiously  in  a  letter — it 
would  never  do  to  blurt  the  whole  thing  out  at  once. 
I'll  tell  Innocent  I  have  a  very  great  and  delightful 
surprise  awaiting  her " 

"Oh,  very  great  and  delightful  indeed!"  echoed 
Armitage  with  a  sad  little  laugh.  "The  discovery 
of  a  tramp  father  with  only  a  couple  of  shirts  to  his 
back  and  a  handful  of  francs  in  his  pocket!" 

"My  dear  chap,  what  does  that  matter?"  and 
Blythe  gave  him  a  light  friendly  blow  on  the 
shoulder.  "We  can  put  all  these  exterior  matters 
right  in  no  time.  Trust  me! — Are  we  not  old 
friends?  You  have  come  back  from  death,  as  it 
seems,  just  when  your  child  may  need  you — she  does 
need  you — every  young  girl  needs  some  protector 


390  INNOCENT 

in  this  world,  especially  when  her  name  has  become 
famous,  and  a  matter  of  public  talk  and  curiosity. 
Ah!  I  can  already  see  her  joy  when  she  throws  her 
arms  around  your  neck  and  says  'My  father!'  I 
would  gladly  change  places  with  you  for  that  one 
exquisite  moment!" 

They  stayed  together  all  that  day  and  night.  Lord 
Blythe  sent  his  wire  to  Miss  Leigh,  and  wrote  his 
letter, — then  both  men  settled  down,  as  it  were,  to 
wait.  Armitage  went  off 'for  two  days  to  Milan,  and 
returned  transformed  in  dress,  looking  the  very  beau- 
ideal  of  an  handsome  Englishman, — and  the  people 
at  Bellaggio  who  had  known  him  as  the  wandering 
landscape  painter  "Pietro  Corri"  failed  to  recognise 
him  now  in  his  true  self. 

"Yes,"  said  Blythe  again,  with  the  fine  unselfish- 
ness which  was  part  of  his  nature,  when  at  the  end 
of  one  of  their  many  conversations  concerning  Inno- 
cent, he  had  gone  over  every  detail  he  could  think 
of  which  related  to  her  life  and  literary  success — 
"When  she  comes  she  will  give  you  all  her  heart, 
Pierce !  She  will  be  proud  and  glad, — she  will  think 
of  no  one  but  her  beloved  father!  She  is  like  that! 
She  is  full  of  an  unspent  love — you  will  possess 
it  all!" 

And  in  his  honest  joy  for  the  joy  of  others,  he 
never  once  thought  of  Amadis  de  Jocelyn. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IT  was  a  gusty  September  afternoon  in  London, 
and  autumn  had  given  some  unpleasing  signs  of  its 
early  presence  in  the  yellow  leaves  that  flew  whirl- 
ing over  the  grass  in  Kensington  Gardens  and  other 
open  spaces  where  trees  spread  their  kind  boughs  to 
the  rough  and  chilly  wind.  A  pretty  little  elm  in 
Miss  Leigh's  tiny  garden  was  clothed  in  gold  instead 
of  green,  and  shook  its  glittering  foliage  down  with 
every  breath  of  air  like  fairy  coins  minted  from  the 
sky.  Innocent,  leaning  from  her  study  window, 
watched  the  falling  brightness  with  an  unwilling 
sense  of  pain  and  foreboding. 

"Summer  is  over,  I'm  afraid!"  she  sighed — 
"Such  a  wonderful  summer  it  has  been  for  me! — 
the  summer  of  my  life — the  summer  of  my  love! 
Oh,  dear  summer,  stay  just  a  little  longer!" 

And  the  verse  of  a  song,  sung  so  often  as  to  have 
become  hackneyed,  rang  in  her  ears — 

"Falling  leaf  and  fading  tree, 
Lines  of  white  in  a  sullen  sea, 
Shadows  rising  on  you  and  me — 
The  swallows  are  making  them  ready  to  fly, 
Wheeling  out  on  a  windy  sky: 
Good-bye,  Summer!     Good-bye,  good-bye!" 

She  shivered,  and  closed  the  window.  She  was 
dressed  for  going  out,  and  her  little  motor-brougham 
waited  for  her  below.  Miss  Leigh  had  gone  to  lunch 
and  to  spend  the  afternoon  with  some  old  friends 
residing  out  of  town, — an  unusual  and  wonderful 

391 


392  INNOCENT 

thing  for  her  to  do,  as  she  seldom  accepted  invita- 
tions now  where  Innocent  was  not  concerned, — but 
the  people  who  had  asked  her  were  venerable  folk 
who  could  not  by  the  laws  of  nature  be  expected  to 
live  very  much  longer,  and  as  they  had  known  La- 
vinia  Leigh  from  girlhood  she  considered  it  some- 
what of  a  duty  to  go  and  see  them  when,  as  in  this 
instance,  they  earnestly  desired  it.  Moreover  she 
knew  Innocent  had  her  own  numerous  engagements 
and  was  never  concerned  at  being  left  alone — es- 
pecially on  this  particular  afternoon  when  she  had 
an  appointment  with  her  publishers, — and  another 
appointment  afterwards,  of  which  she  said  nothing, 
even  to  herself.  She  had  taken  more  than  usual 
pains  with  her  attire,  and  looked  her  sweetest  in  a 
soft  dove-coloured  silk  gown  gathered  about  her 
slight  figure  in  cunning  folds  of  exquisite  line  and 
drapery,  while  the  tender  gold  of  her  hair  shone  like 
ripening  corn  from  under  the  curved  brim  of  a  grace- 
ful "picture"  hat  of  black  velvet,  adorned  with  one 
drooping  pale  grey  plume.  A  small  knot  of  roses 
nestled  among  the  delicate  lace  on  her  bodice,  and 
the  diamond  dove-pendant  Lord  Blythe  had  given 
her  sparkled  like  a  frozen  sunbeam  against  the  ivory 
whiteness  of  her  throat.  She  glanced  at  herself  in 
the  mirror  with  a  smile, — wondering  if  "he"  would 
be  pleased  with  her  appearance, — "he"  had  been 
what  is  called  "difficult"  of  late,  finding  fault  with 
some  of  the  very  points  of  her  special  way  of  dress 
which  he  had  once  eagerly  admired.  But  she  at- 
tributed his  capricious  humour  to  fatigue  and  irri- 
tability from  "over-strain" — that  convenient  ail- 
ment which  is  now-a-days  brought  in  as  a  disguise 
for  mere  want  of  control  and  bad  temper.  "He  has 
been  working  so  hard  to  finish  his  portrait  of  me!" 
she  thought,  tenderly — "Poor  fellow! — he  must  have 
got  quite  tired  of  looking  at  my  face!" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     393 

She  glanced  round  her  study  to  see  that  everything 
was  in  order — and  then  took  up  a  neatly  tied  parcel 
of  manuscript — her  third  book — completed.  She 
had  a  fancy — one  of  many,  equally  harmless, — that 
she  would  like  to  deliver  it  herself  to  the  publishers 
rather  than  send  it  by  post,  on  this  day  of  all  days, 
when  plans  for  the  future  were  to  be  discussed  with 
her  lover  and  everything  settled  for  their  mutual 
happiness.  Her  heart  grew  light  with  joyous  antici- 
pation as  she  ran  downstairs  and  nodded  smilingly 
at  the  maid  Rachel,  who  stood  ready  at  the  door  to 
open  it  for  her  passing. 

"If  Miss  Leigh  comes  home  before  I  do,  tell  her  I 
will  not  be  long,"  she  said,  as  she  stepped  into  her 
brougham  and  was  whirled  away. 

At  the  office  of  her  publishers  she  was  expected 
and  received  with  eager  homage.  The  head  of  the 
firm  took  the  precious  packet  of  manuscript  from  her 
hand  with  a  smile  of  entire  satisfaction. 

"You  are  up  to  your  promised  time,  Miss  Armi- 
tage!"  he  said,  kindly — "And  you  must  have  worked 
very  hard.  I  hope  you'll  give  yourself  a  good  long 
rest  now?" 

She  laughed,  lightly. 

"Oh,  well! — perhaps!"  she  answered — "If  I  feel 
I  can  afford  it!  I  want  to  work  while  I'm  young — 
not  to  rest.  But  I  think  Miss  Leigh  would  like  a 
change — and  if  she  does  I'll  take  her  wherever  she 
wishes  to  go.  She  is  so  kind  to  me! — I  can  never 
do  enough  for  her!" 

The  publisher  looked  at  her  sweet,  thoughtful  face 
curiously. 

"Do  you  never  think  of  yourself?"  he  asked— 
"Must  you  always  plan  some  pleasure  for  others?" 

She  glanced  at  him  in  quick  surprise. 

"Why,  of  course!"  she  replied — "Pleasure  for 
others  is  the  only  pleasure  possible  to  me.  I  assure 


394  INNOCENT 

you  I'm  quite  selfish ! — I'm  greedy  for  the  happiness 
of  those  I  love — and  if  they  can't  or  won't  be  happy 
I'm  perfectly  miserable!" 

He  smiled, — and  when  she  left,  escorted  her  him- 
self out  of  his  office  to  her  brougham  with  a  kind 
friendliness  that  touched  her. 

"You  won't  let  me  call  you  a  brilliant  author," 
he  said,  as  he  shook  hands  with  her — "Perhaps  it 
will  please  you  better  if  I  say  you  are  a  true  woman!" 

Her  eyes  flashed  up  a  bright  gratitude, — she  waved 
her  hand  in  parting — as  the  brougham  glided  off. 
And  never  to  his  dying  day  did  that  publisher  and 
man  of  hard  business  detail  forget  the  radiance  of  the 
face  that  smiled  at  him  that  afternoon, — a  face  of 
light  and  youth  and  loveliness,  as  full  of  hope  arid 
faith  as  the  face  of  a  pictured  angel  kneeling  at  the 
feet  of  the  Madonna  with  heaven's  own  glory  en- 
circling it  in  gold. 

The  quick  little  motor-brougham  seemed  unusual- 
ly slow-going  that  afternoon.  Innocent,  with  her  full 
happy  heart  and  young  pulsing  blood,  grew  impa- 
tient with  its  tardy  progress,  yet,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
it  travelled  along  at  its  most  rapid  speed.  The  well- 
known  by-street  near  Holland  Park  was  reached  at 
last,  and  while  the  brougham  went  off  to  an  accus- 
tomed retired  corner  chosen  by  the  chauffeur  to 
await  her  pleasure,  she  pushed  open  the  gate  of  the 
small  garden  leading  to  the  back  entrance  of  Joce- 
lyn's  studio — a  garden  now  looking  rather  damp  and 
dreary,  strewn  as  it  was  with  wet  masses  of  fallen 
leaves.  It  was  beginning  to  rain — and  she  ran 
swiftly  along  the  path  to  the  familiar  door  which 
she  opened  with  her  private  key.  Jocelyn  was 
working  at  his  easel — he  heard  the  turn  of  the  lock 
and  looked  round.  She  entered,  smiling — but  he 
did  not  at  once  go  and  meet  her.  He  was  finishing 
off  some  special  touch  of  colour  over  which  he  bent 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    395 

with  assiduous  care, — and  she  was  far  too  unselfishly 
interested  in  his  work  to  disturb  him  at  what  seemed 
to  be  an  anxious  moment.  So  she  waited. 

Presently  he  spoke,  with  a  certain  irritability  in 
his  tone. 

"Are  you  there?  I  wish  you  would  come  forward 
where  I  can  see  you!" 

She  laughed — a  pretty  rippling  laugh  of  kindly 
amusement. 

"Amadis!  If  you  are  a  true  Knight,  it  is  you 
who  should  turn  round  and  look  at  me  for  yourself!" 

"But  I  am  busy,"  he  said,  with  the  same  sharp- 
ness of  voice — "Surely  you  see  that?" 

She  made  no  answer,  but  moved  quietly  to  a 
position  where  she  stood  facing  him  at  about  an 
arm's  length.  Never  had  she  made  a  prettier  pic- 
ture than  in  that  attitude  of  charming  hesitation, 
with  a  tender  little  smile  on  her  pretty  mouth  and 
a  wistful  light  in  her  eyes.  He  laid  down  his  palette 
and  brushes. 

"I  must  give  up  work  for  to-day,"  he  said — and 
going  to  her  he  took  her  in  his  arms — "You  are  too 
great  an  attraction  for  me  to  resist!"  He  kissed  her 
lightly,  as  he  would  have  kissed  a  child.  "You  are 
very  fascinating  this  afternoon!  Are  you  bent  on 
some  new  conquest?" 

She  gave  him  a  sweet  look. 

"Why  will  you  talk  nonsense,  my  Amadis!"  she 
said — "You  know  I  never  wish  for  'conquests'  as 
you  call  them, — I  only  want  you!  Nothing  but 
you!" 

With  his  arm  about  her  he  drew  her  to  a  corner  of 
the  studio,  half  curtained,  where  there  was  a  double 
settee  or  couch,  comfortably  cushioned,  and  here  he 
sat  down  still  holding  her  in  his  embrace. 

"You  only  want  me! — Nothing  but  me!"  he  re- 


396  INNOCENT 

peated,  softly — "Dear  little  Innocent! — Ah! — But 
I  fear  I  am  just  what  you  cannot  have!" 

She  smiled,  not  understanding. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked — "You  always 
play  with  me!  Are  you  not  all  mine  as  I  am  all 
yours?" 

He  was  silent.  Then  he  slowly  withdrew  his  arm 
from  her  waist. 

"Now,  child,"  he  said — "listen  to  me  and  be  good 
and  sensible!  You  know  this  cannot  go  on." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  trustfully  to  his  face. 

"What  cannot  go  on?"  she  queried,  as  softly  as 
though  the  question  were  a  caress. 

He  moved  restlessly. 

"Why — this — this  love-making,  of  ours!  We 
mustn't  give  ourselves  over  to  sentiment — we  must 
be  normal  and  practical.  We  must  look  the  thing 
squarely  in  the  face  and  settle  on  some  course  that 
will  be  best  and  wisest  for  us  both " 

She  trembled  a  little.  Something  cold  and  terri- 
fying began  to  creep  through  her  blood. 

"Yes — I  know,"  she  faltered,  nervously — "You 
said — you  said  we  would  arrange  everything  to- 
gether to-day." 

"True!  So  I  did!  Well,  I  will!"  He  drew  closer 
to  her  and  took  her  little  hand  in  his  own.  "You 
see,  dear,  we  can't  live  on  the  heights  of  ecstasy 
for  ever"  and  he  smiled, — a  forced,  ugly  smile — 
"We've  had  a  very  happy  time  together,  haven't 
we?" — and  he  was  conscious  of  a  certain  nervous- 
ness as  he  felt  her  soft  little  body  press  against  him 
in  answer — "But  the  time  has  come  for  us  to  think 
of  other  things — other  interests — your  career, — my 
future " 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  sudden  alarm. 

"Amadis!"  she  said— "What  is  it?  You  frighten 
me ! — you  speak  so  strangely !  What  do  you  mean?" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT    397 

"Now  if  you  are  unreasonable  I  shall  go  away!" 
he  said,  with  sudden  harshness,  dropping  her  hand 
— "I  shall  leave  you  here  by  yourself  without  an- 
other word!" 

She  turned  deathly  pale — then  flushed  a  faint 
crimson — a  sense  of  giddy  faintness  overcame  her, — 
she  put  up  her  hands  to  her  head  tremblingly,  and 
loosening  her  hat  took  it  off  as  though  its  weight 
oppressed  her. 

"I — I  am  not  unreasonable,  Amadis,"  she  faltered 
— "only — I  don't  understand " 

"Well,  you  ought  to  understand,"  he  answered, 
heatedly — "A  clever  little  woman  like  you  who  writes 
books  should  not  want  any  explanation.  You  ought 
to  be  able  to  grasp  the  whole  position  at  a  glance!" 

Her  breath  came  and  went  quickly — she  tried  to 
smile. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  very  stupid  then,"  she  answered, 
gently — "For  I  can  only  see  that  you  seem  angry 
with  me  for  nothing." 

He  took  her  hand  again. 

"Dear  little  goose,  I  am  not  angry,"  he  said — 
"If  you  were  to  make  me  a  'scene'  I  should  be  angry 
— very  angry!  But  you  won't  do  that,  will  you? 
It  would  upset  my  nerves.  And  you  are  such  a  wise, 
independent  little  person  that  I  feel  quite  safe  with 
you.  Well,  now  let  us  talk  sensibly, — I've  a  great 
deal  to  tell  you.  In  the  first  place,  I'm  going  to 
Algiers." 

Her  lips  were  dry  and  stiff,  but  she  managed  to 
ask — 

"When?" 

"Oh,  any  time! — to-morrow  .  .  .  next  day — be- 
fore the  week  is  over,  certainly.  There  are  some  fine 
subjects  out  there  that  I  want  to  paint — and  I  feel 
I  could  do  good  work " 

Her  hand  in  his  contracted  a  little, — she  instinc- 


398  INNOCENT 

lively  withdrew  it  ...  then  she  heard  herself  speak- 
ing as  though  it  were  someone  else  a  long  way  off. 

"When  are  you  coming  back?" 

"Ah! — That's  my  own  affair!"  he  answered  care- 
lessly— "In  the  spring  perhaps, — perhaps  not  for  a 
year  or  two " 

"Amadis!" 

The  name  sprang  from  her  lips  like  the  cry  of  an 
animal  wounded  to  death.  She  rose  suddenly  from 
his  side  and  stood  facing  him,  swaying  slightly  like 
a  reed  in  a  cruel  wind. 

"Well!"  he  rejoined — "You  say  'Amadis'  as 
though  it  hurt  you!  What  now?" 

"Do  you  mean,"  she  said,  faintly — "by — what 
— you — say, — do  you  mean — that  we  are — to  part?" 

The  strained  agony  in  her  eyes  compelled  him  to 
turn  his  own  away.  He  got  up  from  the  settee  and 
left  her  where  she  stood. 

"We  must  part  sooner  or  later,"  he  answered, 
lightly — "surely  you  know  that?" 

"Surely  I  know  that!"  she  repeated,  with  a 
bewildered  look, — then  running  to  him,  she  caught 
his  arm — "Amadis!  Amadis!  You  don't  mean  it! 
— say  you  don't  mean  it! — You  can't  mean  it,  if 
you  love  me!  .  .  .  Oh,  my  dearest! — if  you  love 
me!  .  .  ." 

She  stopped,  half  choked  by  a  throbbing  ache  in 
her  throat, — and  tottered  against  him  as  though 
about  to  fall.  Alarmed  at  this  he  caught  her  round 
the  waist  to  support  her. 

"Of  course  I  love  you!"  he  said,  hurriedly — 
"When  you  are  good  and  reasonable! — not  when 
you  behave  like  this !  If  I  don't  love  you,  it  will  be 
quite  your  own  fault " 

"My  own  fault?"  she  murmured,  sobbingly — "My 
own  fault?  Amadis!  What  have  I  done?" 

"What  have  you  done?    It's  what  you  are  doing 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     399 

that  matters!     Giving  way  to  temper  and  making 
me  uncomfortable!    Do  you  call  that  'love'?" 

She  dropped  her  hand  from  his  arm  and  drew 
herself  away  from  him.  She  was  trembling  from 
head  to  foot. 

"Please — please  don't  misunderstand  me!"  she 
stammered,  like  a  frightened  child — "I — I  have 
no  temper!  I — I — feel  nothing — I  only  want  to 

please  you — to  know  what  you  wish " 

She  broke  off — her  eyes,  lifted  to  his,  had  a  strange, 
wild  stare,  but  he  was  too  absorbed  in  his  own  par- 
ticular and  personal  difficulty  to  notice  this.  He 
went  on,  speaking  rapidly — 

"If  you  want  to  please  me  you  will  first  of  all  be 
perfectly  normal,"  he  said — "Make  up  your  mind  to 
be  calm  and  good-natured.  I  cannot  stand  an  emo- 
tional woman  all  tantrums  and  tears.  I  like  good 
sense  and  good  manners.  You  ought  to  have  both, 
with  all  the  books  you  have  read " 

She  gave  a  sudden  low  laugh,  empty  of  mirth. 

"Books!"  she  echoed — and  raising  her  arms  above 
her  head  she  let  them  drop  again  at  her  sides  with  a 
gesture  of  utter  abandonment.  "Ah  yes!  Books! 
Books  by  the  Sieur  Amadis  de  Jocelin!" 

Her  hair  was  ruffled  and  fell  about  her  face, — 
her  cheeks  had  flamed  into  a  feverish  red.  The 
tragic  beauty  of  her  expression  annoyed  him. 

"Your  hair  is  coming  down,"  he  said,  with  a  coldly 
critical  smile — "You  look  like  a  Bacchante!" 

She  paid  no  attention  to  this  remark.  She  was 
apparently  talking  to  herself. 

"Books!"  she  said  again — "Such  sweet  love-letters 
and  poems  by  the  Sieur  Amadis  de  Jocelin!" 

He  grew  impatient. 

"You're  a  silly  child!"  he  said — "Are  you  going  to 
listen  to  me  or  not?" 


400  INNOCENT 

She  gazed  at  him  with  an  almost  awful  directness. 

"I  am  listening!"  she  answered. 

"Well,  don't  be  melodramatic  while  you  listen!" 
he  retorted — "Be  normal!" 

She  was  silent,  still  gazing  fixedly  at  him. 

He  turned  his  eyes  away,  and  taking  up  one  of 
his  brushes,  dipped  it  in  colour  and  made  a  great 
pretence  of  working  in  a  bit  of  sky  on  his  canvas. 

"You  see,  dear  child,"  he  resumed,  with  an  unc- 
tuous air  of  patient  kindness — "your  ideas  of  love 
and  mine  are  totally  different.  You  want  to  b've 
in  a  paradise  of  romance  and  tenderness — I  want 
nothing  of  the  sort.  Of  course,  with  a  sweet  caress- 
able  creature  like  you  it's  very  pleasant  to  indulge 
in  a  little  folly  for  a  time, — and  we've  had  quite 
four  months  of  the  'divine  rapture'  as  the  poets  call 
it, — four  months  is  a  long  time  for  any  rapture  to 
last !  You  have — yes ! — you  have  amused  me ! — and 
I've  made  you  happy — given  you  something  to  think 
about  besides  scribbling  and  publishing — yes — I'm 
sure  I  have  made  you  happy — and, — what  is  much 
more  to  my  credit — I  have  taken  care  of  you  and  left 
you  unharmed.  Think  of  that!  Day  after  day  I 
have  had  you  here  entirely  in  my  power! — and  yet 
— and  yet" — here  he  turned  his  cold  blue  eyes  upon 
her  with  an  under-gleam  of  mockery  in  their  steely 
light — "you  are  still — Innocent!" 

She  did  not  move — she  scarcely  seemed  to 
breathe. 

"That  is  why  I  told  you  it  would  be  a  good  thing 
for  you  if  you  accepted  Lord  Blythe's  offer, — in  his 
great  position  he  would  be  able  to  marry  you  well 
to  some  rich  fellow  with  a  title" — he  went  on,  easily. 
"Now  I  am  not  a  marrying  man.  Domestic  bliss 
would  not  suit  me.  I  have  sometimes  thought  it 
would  hardly  suit  you!" 

She  stirred  slightly,  as  though  some  invisible  crea- 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     401 

ture  had  touched  her,  and  held  up  one  little  trem- 
bling hand. 

"Stop!"  she  said,  and  her  voice  though  faint  was 
clear  and  steady — "Do  you  think — can  you  imagine 
that  I  am  of  so  low  and  common  a  nature  as  to  marry 

any  man,  after "  She  paused,  struggling  with 

herself. 

"After  what?"  he  queried,  smilingly. 

She  shuddered,  as  with  keenest  cold. 

"After  your  kisses!"  she  answered — "After  your 
embraces  which  have  held  me  away  from  everything 
save  you! — After  your  caresses — oh  God! — after  all 
this, — do  you  think  I  would  shame  my  body 
and  perjure  my  soul  by  giving  myself  to  another 
man?" 

He  almost  laughed  at  her  saintty  idea  of  a  lover's 
chastity. 

"Every  woman  would!"  he  declared — "And  I'm 
sure  every  woman  does!" 

She  looked  straight  before  her  into  vacancy. 

"I  am  net  'every  woman,' "  she  said,  slowly — "I 
am  only  one  unhappy  girl!" 

He  was  still  dabbing  colour  on  his  canvas,  but  now 
threw  down  his  brush  and  came  to  her. 

"Dear  child,  why  be  tragic?"  he  said — "Life  is 
such  a  pleasant  thing  and  holds  so  much  for  both  of 
us!  I  shall  always  love  you — if  you're  good!"  and 
he  laughed,  pleasantly — "and  you  can  always  love 
me — if  you  like !  But  I  cannot  marry  you — I  have 
never  thought  of  such  a  thing!  Marriage  would 
not  suit  me  at  all.  I  know,  of  course,  what  you 
would  like.  You  would  like  a  grand  wedding  with 
lots  of  millinery  and  presents,  and  then  a  honey- 
moon at  your  old  Briar  Farm — in  fact,  I  daresay 
you'd  like  to  buy  Briar  Farm  and  imprison  me  there 
for  life,  along  with  the  dust  and  ashes  of  my  ances- 
tor's long-lost  brother — but  I  shouldn't  like  it !  No, 


402  INNOCENT 

child! — not  even  you,  attractive  as  you  are,  could 
turn  me  into  a  Farmer  Jocelyn!" 

He  tried  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  but  she  drew 
herself  back  from  him. 

"You  speak  truly,"  she  said,  in  a  measured,  life- 
less tone — "Nothing  could  turn  you  into  a  Farmer 
Jocelyn.  For  he  was  an  honest  man!" 

He  winced  as  though  a  whip  had  struck  him,  and 
an  ugly  frown  darkened  his  features. 

"He  would  not  have  hurt  a  dog  that  trusted  him," 
she  went  on  in  the  same  monotonous  way — "He 
would  not  have  betrayed  a  soul  that  loved  him!" 

All  at  once  the  unnatural  rigidity  of  her  face  broke 
up  into  piteous,  terrible  weeping,  and  she  flung  her- 
self at  his  feet. 

"Amadis,  Amadis!"  she  cried.  "It  is  not — it  can- 
not be  you  who  are  so  cruel! — no,  no! — it  is  some 
devil  that  speaks  to  me— not  you,  not  you,  my 
love,  my  heart!  Oh,  say  it  isn't  true! — say  it  isn't 
true !  Have  mercy — mercy !  I  love  you,  I  love  you ! 
You  are  all  my  life! — I  cannot  live  without  you! 
Amadis ! " 

Vexed  and  frightened  for  himself  at  her  sudden 
wild  abandonment  of  grief,  he  stooped,  and  gripping 
her  by  the  arm  tried  to  draw  her  up  from  the 
floor. 

"Be  quiet!"  he  said,  roughly — "I  will  not  have  a 
scandal  here  in  my  studio!  You'll  bring  my  man- 
servant up  in  a  moment  with  your  stupid  noise! 
I'm  ashamed  of  you! — screaming  and  crying  like  a 
virago!  If  you  make  this  row  I  shall  go  away!" 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no! — do  not  go  away!"  she  moaned, 
sobbingly — "Have  some  little  pity!  Do  not  leave 
me,  Amadis!  Is  everything  forgotten  so  soon? 
Think  for  a  moment  what  you  have  said  to  me! — 
what  you  have  been  to  me !  I  thought  you  loved  me, 
dear! — yes,  I  thought  you  loved  me! — you  told  me 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     403 

so!"  And  she  held  up  her  little  hands  to  him  folded 
as  in  prayer,  the  tears  raining  down  her  cheeks — 
"But  if  for  some  fault  of  mine  you  do  not  love  me 
any  more,  kill  me  now — here — just  where  I  am!— 
kill  me,  Amadis! — or  tell  me  to  go  away  and  kill 
myself — I  will  obey  you! — but  don't— don't  send 
me  into  the  empty  darkness  of  life  again  all  alone! 
Oh,  no,  no!  Let  me  die  rather  than  that! — you 
would  not  think  unkindly  of  me  if  I  were  dead!" 

He  took  her  uplifted  hands  in  his  own — he  began 
to  be  "artistically"  interested, — with  the  same  sort 
of  interest  Nero  might  have  felt  while  watching  the 
effects  of  some  new  poison  on  a  tortured  slave, — and 
a  slight,  very  slight  sense  of  regret  and  remorse 
tugged  at  his  tough  heart-strings. 

"I  should  think  of  you  exactly  as  I  do  now,"  he 
said,  resolutely — "If  you  were  to  kill  yourself  I 
should  not  pity  you  in  the  least!  I  should  say  that 
though  you  were  a  bit  of  a  clever  woman,  you  were 
much  more  of  a  fool!  So  you  would  gain  nothing 
that  way !  You  see,  I'm  sane  and  sensible — you  are 
not.  You  are  excited  and  hysterical — and  don't 
know  what  you  are  talking  about.  Yes,  child! — 
that's  the  fact!"  He  patted  the  hands  he  held  con- 
solingly, and  then  let  them  go.  "I  wish  you'd  get 
up  from  the  floor  and  be  reasonable!  The  position 
is  quite  simple  and  clear.  We've  had  an  ideal  time 
of  it  together — but  isn't  it  Shakespeare  who  says 
'These  violent  delights  have  violent  ends'?  My  work 
calls  me  to  Algiers — yours  keeps  you  in  London — 
therefore  we  must  part — but  we  shall  meet  again — 
some  day — I  hope  .  .  ." 

She  slowly  rose  to  her  feet, — her  sobbing  ceased. 

"Then — you  never  loved  me?"  she  said — "It  was 
all  a  lie?" 

"I  never  lie,"  he  answered,  coldly — "I  loved  you 
— for  the  time  being.  You  amused  me." 


404  INNOCENT 

"And  for  your  'amusement'  you  have  ruined 
me?" 

"Ruined  you?"  He  turned  upon  her  in  indignant 
protest — "You  must  be  mad!  You  have  been  as 
safe  with  me  as  in  the  arms  of  your  mother " 

At  this  she  laughed, — a  shrill  little  laugh  with 
tears  submerging  it. 

"You  may  laugh,  but  it  is  true!"  he  went  on, 
in  a  righteously  aggrieved  tone — "I  have  done  you 
no  harm, — on  the  contrary,  you  have  to  thank  me 
for  a  great  deal  of  happiness " 

She  gave  a  tragic  gesture  of  eloquent  despair. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have  to  thank  you!"  she  said,  and 
her  voice  now  vibrated  with  intense  and  passionate 
sorrow — "I  have  to  thank  you  for  so  much — for  so 
very  much  indeed!  You  have  been  so  kind  and 
good!  Yes!  And  you  have  never  thought  of  your- 
self or  your  own  pleasure  at  all — but  only  of  me! 
And  I  have  been  as  safe  with  you  as  in  my  mother's 
arms,  .  .  .  yes! — you  have  been  quite  as  careful  of 
me  as  she  was!"  And  a  wan  smile  flitted  over  her 
agonised  face — "All  this  I  have  to  thank  you  for! — 
but  you  have  ruined  me  just  the  same — not  my  body, 
but  my  soul!" 

He  looked  at  her, — she  returned  his  gaze  unflinch- 
ingly with  eyes  that  glowed  like  burning  stars — and 
he  thought  she  was,  as  he  put  it  to  himself,  "calming 
down."  He  laughed,  a  little  uneasily. 

"Soul  is  an  unknown  quantity,"  he  said — "It 
doesn't  count." 

She  seemed  not  to  hear  him. 

"You  have  ruined  my  soul!"  she  repeated  stead- 
ily— "You  have  stolen  it  from  God — you  have  made 
it  all  your  own — for  your  'amusement'!  What  re- 
mainder of  life  have  you  left  to  me?  Nothing!  I 
have  no  hope,  no  faith,  no  power  to  work — no  am- 
bition to  fulfil — no  dreams  to  realise!  You  gave 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     405 

me  love — as  I  thought! — and  I  lived;  you  take  love 
from  me,  and  I  die!" 

He  bent  his  eyes  upon  her  with  a  kind,  almost 
condescending  gentleness, — his  personal  vanity  was 
immense,  and  the  utter  humiliation  of  her  love  for 
him  flattered  the  deep  sense  he  had  of  his  own  value. 

"Dear  little  goose,  you  will  not  die!"  he  said — 
"For  heaven's  sake  have  done  with  all  this  senti- 
mental talk! — I  am  not  a  man  who  can  tolerate  it. 
You  are  such  a  pleasant  creature  when  you  are 
cheerful  and  self-possessed, — so  bright  and  clever  and 
companionable — and  there  is  no  reason  why  we 
shouldn't  make  love  to  each  other  again  as  often  as 
we  like, — but  change  and  novelty  are  good  for  both 
of  us.  Come! — kiss  me! — be  a  good  child — and  let 
us  part  friends!" 

He  approached  her, — there  was  a  smile  on  his  lips 
— a  smile  in  which  lurked  a  suspicion  of  mockery  as 
well  as  victorious  self-satisfaction.  She  saw  it — and 
swiftly  there  came  swooping  over  her  brain  the  hor- 
rible realisation  of  the  truth — that  it  was  all  over! 
— that  never,  never  again  would  she  be  able  to  dwell 
on  the  amorous  looks  and  words  and  love-phrases  of 
her  "Amadis  de  Jocelyn!" — that  no  happy  future 
was  in  store  for  her  with  him — that  he  had  no  in- 
terest whatever  in  her  cherished  memories  of  Briar 
Farm,  and  that  he  would  never  care  to  accept  the 
right  of  dwelling  there  even  if  she  secured  it  for  him, 
—moreover,  that  he  viewed  her  very  work  with  in- 
difference, and  had  no  concern  as  to  her  name  or 
fame — so  that  everything — every  pretty  fancy, 
every  radiant  hope,  every  happy  possibility  was  at 
an  end.  Life  stretched  before  her  dreary  as  the 
dreariest  desert — for  her,  whose  nature  was  to  love 
but  once,  there  was  no  gleam  of  light  in  all  the 
world's  cruel  darkness!  A  red  mist  swam  before  her 
eyes — black  clouds  seemed  descending  upon  her  and 


406  INNOCENT 

whirling  round  about  her — she  looked  wildly  from 
right  to  left,  as  though  seeking  to  escape  from  some 
invisible  pursuer.  Startled  at  her  expression  Jocelyn 
tried  to  hold  her — but  she  shook  him  off.  She  made 
a  few  unsteady  steps  along  the  floor. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said — "Innocent — don't  stare 
like  that!" 

She  smiled  strangely  and  nodded  at  him — she  was 
fingering  the  plant  of  marguerite  daisies  that  stood 
in  its  accustomed  place  between  the  easel  and  the 
wall.  She  plucked  a  flower  and  began  hurriedly 
stripping  off  its  petals. 

"'II  m'aime — un  peu! — beaucoup— passionement 
— pas  du  tout!'  Pas  du  tout!"  she  cried — "Amadis! 
Amadis  de  Jocelyn!  You  hear  what  it  says?  Pas 
du  tout!  You  promised  it  should  never  come  to 
that! — but  it  has  come!" 

She  threw  away  the  stripped  flower,  .  .  .  there 
was  a  quick  hot  throbbing  behind  her  temples — she 
put  up  her  hands — then  all  suddenly  a  sharp  invol- 
untary scream  broke  from  her  lips.  He  sprang 
towards  her  to  seize  and  silence  her — she  stuffed  her 
handkerchief  into  her  mouth. 

"I'm  sorry!"  she  panted — "Forgive! — I  couldn't 
help  it! — Amadis — Amadis! " 

And  she  flung  herself  against  his  breast.  Her  eyes, 
large  and  feverishly  brilliant,  searched  his  face  for 
any  sign  of  tenderness,  and  searched  in  vain. 

"Say  it  isn't  true!"  she  whispered — "Amadis — 
oh  my  love,  say  it  isn't  true!"  Her  little  hands 
caressed  him — she  drew  his  head  down  towards  her 
and  her  pleading  kiss  touched  his  lips.  "Say  that 
you  didn't  really  mean  it! — that  you  love  me  still 
— Amadis! — you  could  not  be  cruel! — you  will  not 
break  my  heart! " 

But  he  was  too  angry  to  be  pitiful.  Her  scream 
had  infuriated  him — he  thought  it  would  alarm  the 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT 

street,  bring  up  the  servant,  and  give  rise  to  all  sorts 
of  scandal  in  which  he  might  be  implicated,  and  he 
roughly  loosened  her  clinging  arms  from  his  neck 
and  pushed  her  from  him. 

"Break  your  heart!"  he  exclaimed,  bitterly — 
"I  wish  I  could  break  your  temper!  You  behave 
like  a  madwoman;  I  shall  go  away  to  my  room! 
When  I  come  back  I  expect  to  find  you  calm,  and 
reasonable — or  else,  gone!  Remember!" 

She  stood  gazing  at  him  as  though  petrified.  He 
swung  past  her  rapidly,  and  opening  the  principal 
door  of  the  studio  passed  through  it  and  disappeared. 
She  ran  to  it — tried  to  open  it — it  was  locked  on 
the  other  side.  She  was  alone. 

She  looked  about  her  bewildered,  like  a  child  that 
has  lost  its  way.  She  saw  her  pretty  little  velvet 
hat  on  the  settee  where  she  had  left  it,  and  in  a 
trembling  hurry  she  put  it  on — then  paused.  Going 
on  tip-toe  to  the  easel,  she  looked  vaguely  at  her 
own  portrait  and  smiled. 

"You  must  be  good  and  reasonable!"  she  said, 
waving  her  hand  to  it — "When  you  have  lost  every 
thing  in  the  world,  you  must  be  calm !  You  mustn't 
think  of  love  any  more! — that's  only  a  fancy! — 
you  mustn't — no,  you  mustn't  have  any  fancies  or 
your  dove  will  fly  away!  You  are  holding  it  to 
your  heart  just  now — and  it  seems  quite  safe — but 
it  will  fly  away  presently — yes! — it  will  fly  away!" 

She  lifted  the  painter's  palette  and  looked  curi- 
ously at  it, — then  took  up  the  brush,  moist  with 
colour,  which  Jocelyn  had  lately  used.  Softly  she 
kissed  its  handle  and  laid  it  down  again.  Then  she 
waited,  with  a  puzzled  air,  and  listened.  There 
was  no  sound.  Another  moment,  and  she  moved 
noiselessly,  almost  creepingly  to  the  little  private 
door  by  which  she  had  always  entered  the  studio, 
and  unlocking  it,  slipped  out  leaving  the  key  in  the 


408  INNOCENT 

lock.  It  was  raining  heavily,  but  she  was  not  con- 
scious of  this, — she  had  no  very  clear  idea  what  she 
was  doing.  There  was  a  curious  calm  upon  her, — 
a  kind  of  cold  assertiveness,  like  that  of  a  dying  per- 
son who  has  strength  enough  to  ask  for  some  dear 
friend's  presence  before  departing  from  life.  She 
walked  steadily  to  the  place  where  her  motor- 
brougham  waited  for  her,  and  entered  it.  The 
chauffeur  looked  at  her  for  orders. 

"To  Paddington  Station,"  she  said — "I  am  going 
out  of  town.  Stop  at  the  first  telegraph  office  on 
your  way." 

The  man  touched  his  hat.  He  thought  she  seemed 
very  ill,  but  it  was  his  place  to  obey  instructions, 
not  to  proffer  sympathy.  At  the  telegraph  office  she 
got  out,  moving  like  one  in  a  dream  and  sent  a  wire 
to  Miss  Leigh. 

"Am  staying  with  friends  out  of  town.  Don't 
wait  up  for  me." 

Back  to  the  brougham  she  went,  still  in  a  dream- 
like apathy,  and  at  Paddington  dismissed  the  chauf- 
feur. 

"If  I  want  you  in  the  morning,  I  will  let  you 
know,"  she  said,  with  matter-of-fact  composure,  and 
turning,  was  lost  at  once  in  the  crowd  of  passengers 
pouring  into  the  station. 

The  man  was  for  a  moment  puzzled  by  the  pale- 
ness of  her  face  and  the  wildness  of  her  eyes,  but 
like  most  of  his  class,  made  little  effort  to  think 
beyond  the  likelihood  of  everything  being  "all  right 
to-morrow,"  and  went  his  way. 

Meanwhile  Miss  Leigh  had  returned  to  her  house 
to  find  it  bereft  of  its  living  sunshine.  There  were 
two  telegrams  awaiting  her, — one  from  Lord  Bly the, 
urging  her  to  start  at  once  with  Innocent  for  Italy — 
the  other  from  Innocent  herself,  which  alarmed  her 
by  its  unusual  purport.  In  all  the  time  she  had 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT     409 

lived  with  her  "god-mother"  the  girl  had  never 
stayed  away  a  night,  and  that  she  was  doing  so  now 
worried  and  perplexed  the  old  lady  to  an  acute  de- 
gree of  nervous  anxiety.  John  Harrington  happened 
to  call  that  evening,  and  on  hearing  what  had  oc- 
curred, became  equally  anxious  with  herself,  and, 
moved  by  some  curious  instinct,  went,  on  his  way 
home,  to  Jocelyn's  studio  to  ascertain  if  Innocent 
had  been  there  that  afternoon.  But  he  knocked  and 
rang  at  the  door  in  vain, — all  was  dark  and  silent. 
Amadis  de  Jocelyn  was  a  wise  man  in  his  generation. 
When  he  had  returned  to  confront  Innocent  again 
and  find  her,  as  he  had  suggested,  either  recovered 
from  her  "temper"  and  "calm  and  reasonable" — or 
else  "gone" — he  had  rejoiced  to  see  that  she  had  ac- 
cepted the  latter  alternative.  There  was  no  trace  of 
her  save  the  unlocked  private  door  of  the  studio, 
which  he  now  locked,  putting  the  key  in  his  pocket. 
He  gave  a  long  breath  of  relief — a  sort  of  "Thank 
God  that's  over!" — and  arranged  his  affairs  of  both 
art  and  business  with  such  dispatch  as  to  leave  for 
Paris  in  peace  and  comfort  by  the  night  boat-train. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THAT  evening  the  fitful  and  gusty  wind  increased 
to  a  gale  which  swept  the  land  with  devastating  force, 
breaking  down  or  uprooting  great  trees  that  had 
withstood  the  storms  of  centuries,  and  torrential  rain 
fell,  laying  whole  tracts  of  country  under  water.  All 
round  the  coast  the  sea  was  lashed  into  a  tossing 
tumult,  the  waves  rolling  in  like  great  green  walls 
of  water  streaked  with  angry  white  as  though  flashed 
with  lightning,  and  the  weather  reports  made  the 
usual  matter-of-fact  statement  that  "Cross-Channel 
steamers  made  rough  passages."  Winds  and  waves, 
however,  had  no  disturbing  effect  on  the  mental  or 
physical  balance  of  Amadis  de  Jocelyn,  who, 
wrapped  in  a  comfortable  fur-lined  overcoat,  sat  in 
a  sheltered  corner  on  the  deck  of  the  Calais  boat, 
smoking  a  good  cigar  and  congratulating  himself  on 
the  ease  with  which  he  had  slipped  out  of  what 
threatened  to  have  been  a  very  unpleasant  and  em- 
barrassing entanglement. 

"If  she  were  an  ordinary  sort  of  girl  it  wouldn't 
matter  so  much,"  he  thought — "  She  would  be 
practical,  with  sufficient  vanity  not  to  care, — she 
would  see  more  comedy  than  tragedy  in  the  whole 
thing.  But  with  her  romantic  ideas  about  love,  and 
her  name  in  everybody's  mouth,  I  might  have  got 
into  the  devil's  own  mess!  I  wonder  where  she 
went  to  when  she  left  the  studio?  Straight  home,  I 
suppose,  to  Miss  Leigh, — will  she  tell  Miss  Leigh? 
No — I  think  not! — she's  not  likely  to  tell  anybody. 

410 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT   411 

She'll  keep  it  all  to  herself.  She's  a  silly  little  fool! 
— but  she's — she's  loyal!" 

Yes,  she  was  loyal!  Of  that  there  could  be  no 
manner  of  doubt.  Callous  and  easy-going  man  of 
the  world  as  he  had  ever  been  and  ever  would  be, 
the  steadfast  truth  and  tender  devotion  of  the  poor 
child  moved  him  to  a  faint  sense  of  shamed  admira- 
tion. On  the  inky  blackness  of  the  night  he  saw  her 
face,  floating  like  a  vision, — her  little  uplifted,  pray- 
ing hands, — he  heard  her  voice,  piteously  sweet,  cry- 
ing "Amadis!  Amadis!  Say  you  didn't  mean  it! — 
say  it  isn't  true! — I  thought  you  loved  me,  dear! — 
you  told  me  so!" 

The  waves  hissed  round  the  rolling  steamer,  and 
every  now  and  again  white  tongues  of  foam  darted 
at  him  from  the  crests  of  the  heaving  waters,  yet 
amid  all  the  shattering  roar  and  turbulence  of  the 
storm,  he  could  not  get  the  sound  of  that  pleading 
voice  out  of  his  ears. 

"Silly  little  fool!"  he  repeated  over  and  over 
again  with  inward  vexation — "Nothing  could  be 
more  absurd  than  her  way  of  looking  at  life  as 
though  it  was  only  made  for  love !  Yet — she  suited 
her  name! — she  was  really  the  most  'innocent'  crea- 
ture I  have  ever  known!  And — and — she  loved 
me!" 

The  sea  and  the  wind  shrieked  at  him  as  the  vessel 
plunged  heavily  on  her  difficult  way — his  nerves, 
cool  as  they  were,  seemed  to  himself  on  edge :  and  at 
certain  moments  during  that  Channel  passage  he 
felt  a  pang  of  remorse  and  pity  for  the  young  life 
on  which  he  had  cast  an  ineffaceable  shadow, — a  life 
instinct  with  truth,  beauty,  and  brightness,  just 
opening  out  as  it  were  into  the  bloom  of  fulfilled 
promise.  He  had  not  "betrayed"  her  in  the  world's 
vulgar  sense  of  betrayal, — he  had  not  wronged  her 
body — but  he  had  done  far  worse, — he  had  robbed 


412  INNOCENT 

her  of  her  peace  of  mind.  Little  by  little  he  had 
stolen  from  the  flower  of  her  life  its  honey  of  sweet 
content, — he  had  checked  the  active  impulses  of 
her  ambition,  and  as  they  soared  upwards  like  bright 
birds  to  the  sun,  had  brought  them  down  to  the 
ground,  slain  with  a  mere  word  of  light  mockery, — 
he  had  led  her  to  judge  all  things  of  no  value  save 
himself, — and  when  he  had  attained  to  this  end  he 
had  destroyed  her  last  dream  of  happiness  by  vol- 
untarily proving  his  own  insincerity  and  worthless- 
ness. 

"It  has  all  been  her  own  fault,"  he  mused,  trying 
to  excuse  and  to  console  himself — "She  fell  into 
my  arms  as  easily  as  a  ripe  peach  falls  at  a  touch 
— that  childish  fancy  about  'Amadis  de  Jocelin'  did 
the  trick!  Curious! — very  curious  that  a  sixteenth- 
century  member  of  my  own  family  tree  should  be 
mixed  up  in  my  affair  with  this  girl!  Of  course 
she'll  say  nothing, — there's  nothing  to  say!  We've 
kept  our  secret  very  well,  and  except  for  a  few 
playful  suggestions  and  hints  dropped  here  and 
there,  nobody  knows  we  were  in  love  with  each 
other.  Then — she's  got  her  work  to  do, — it  isn't  as 
if  she  were  an  idle  woman  without  an  occupation, — 
and  she'll  think  it  down  and  live  it  down.  Of  course 
she  will!  I'm  worrying  myself  quite  needlessly!  It 
will  be  all  right.  And  as  she  doesn't  go  to  her  Briar 
Farm  now,  I  daresay  she'll  even  forget  her  fetish  of 
a  knight,  the  'Sieur  'Amadis  de  Jocelin'!" 

He  laughed  idly,  amused  as  he  always  had  been  at 
the  romantic  ideal  she  had  made  of  the  old  French 
knight  who  had  so  strangely  turned  out  to  be  the 
brother  of  his  own  far-away  ancestor, — and  then, 
on  landing  at  Calais,  was  soon  absorbed  in  numer- 
ous other  thoughts  and  interests,  and  gradually  dis- 
missed the  whole  subject  from  his  mind.  After  all, 
for  him  it  was  only  one  "little  affair"  out  of  at  least 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT 

a  dozen  or  more,  which  from  time  to  time  had  served 
to  entertain  him  and  provide  a  certain  stimulus  for 
his  artistic  emotions. 

The  storm  had  it  all  its  own  way  in  the  fair  Eng- 
lish country, — sweeping  in  from  the  sea  it  tore  over 
hill  and  dale  with  haste  and  fury,  working  terrible 
havoc  among  the  luxuriant  autumnal  foliage  and 
bringing  down  whirling  wet  showers  of  gold  and 
crimson  leaves.  Round  Briar  Farm  it  raged  all  day 
long,  tearing  away  from  the  walls  one  giant  branch 
of  the  old  "Glory"  rose  and  snapping  it  off  at  its 
stem.  Robin  Clifford,  coming  home  from  the  fields 
in  the  late  afternoon,  saw  the  fallen  bough  covered 
with  a  scented  splendour  of  late  roses,  and  lifting  it 
tenderly  carried  it  into  the  house,  thinking  some- 
what sadly  that  in  the  old  days  Innocent  would  have 
been  grieved  had  she  seen  such  havoc  made.  Set- 
ting it  in  a  big  brown  jar  full  of  water,  he  put  it  in 
the  entrance  hall  where  its  shoots  reached  nearly  to 
the  ceiling,  and  Priscilla  Friday  exclaimed  at  the 
sight  of  it— 

"Eh,  eh,  is  the  old  rose-tree  broken,  Mister  Robm! 
That's  never  happened  before  in  all  the  time  I've 
been  'ere!  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  it! — no,  Mister 
Robin,  I  don't!" 

"It's  only  one  of  the  bigger  branches,"  answered 
Robin  soothingly.  "The  rose-tree  itself  is  all  right 
— I  don't  think  any  storm  can  hurt  that — it's  too 
deeply  rooted.  This  was  certainly  a  very  fine 
branch,  but  it  must  have  got  loosened  by  the  wind." 

Even  as  he  spoke  a  fierce  gust  swept  over  the  old 
house  with  a  sound  like  a  scream  of  wrath  and 
agony,  and  a  furious  torrent  of  rain  emptied  itself 
as  though  from  a  cloud-burst,  half  drowning  the 
flower-beds  and  for  the  moment  making  a  pool  of 
the  court-yard.  Priscilla  hurried  to  see  that  all  the 
windows  were  shut  and  the  doors  well  barred,  and 


414  INNOCENT 

when  evening  closed  in  the  picturesque  gables  of 
the  roof  were  but  a  black  blur  in  the  almost  inces- 
sant whirl  of  rain. 

As  the  night  deepened  the  storm  grew  worse,  and 
the  howling  of  the  wind  through  the  cracks  and 
crannies  of  the  ancient  building  was  like  the  noise 
of  wild  animals  clamouring  for  food.  Priscilla  and 
Robin  Clifford  sat  together  in  the  kitchen, — the 
most  comfortable  apartment  to  be  in  on  such  an 
unkind  night  of  elemental  uproar.  It  had  become 
more  or  less  their  living-room  since  Innocent's  de- 
parture, for  Robin  could  not  bear  to  sit  in  the  "best 
parlour,"  as  it  was  called,  now  that  there  was  no 
one  to  share  its  old-world  charm  and  comfort  with 
him, — and  when  Priscilla's  work  was  done,  and 
everything  was  cleared  and  the  other  servants  gone 
to  their  beds,  he  preferred  to  bring  his  book  and 
pipe  into  the  kitchen,  and  sit  in  an  old  cushioned 
arm-chair  on  one  side  of  the  fire-place,  while  Pris- 
cilla sat  on  the  other,  mending  the  house-linen,  both 
of  them  talking  at  intervals  of  the  past,  and  of  the 
happy  and  unthinking  days  when  Farmer  Jocelyn 
had  been  alive  and  well,  and  when  Innocent  was 
like  a  fairy  child  flitting  over  the  meadows  with  her 
light  and  joyous  movements,  her  brown-gold  hair 
flying  loose  like  a  trail  of  sunbeams  on  the  wind, 
her  face  blossoming  into  rose-and-white  loveliness 
as  a  flower  blossoms  on  its  slender  stem, — her  voice 
carrying  sweet  cadences  through  the  air  and  mak- 
ing music  wherever  it  rang.  Latterly,  however,  they 
had  not  spoken  so  much  of  her, — the  fame  of  her 
genius  and  the  sudden  leap  she  had  made  into  a  po- 
sition of  public  note  and  brilliancy  had  somewhat 
scared  the  simple  soul  of  Priscilla,  who  felt  that  the 
child  she  had  reared  from  infancy  had  been  taken 
by  some  strange  and  not  to  be  contested  fate  away, 
far  out  of  her  reach, — while  Robin — whose  experi- 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT   415 

ences  at  Oxford  had  taught  him  that  persons  of  his 
own  sex  attaining  to  even  a  mild  literary  celebrity 
were  apt  to  become  somewhat  "touch-me-not"  char- 
acters— almost  persuaded  himself  that  perhaps  In- 
nocent, sweet  and  ideally  simple  of  nature  as  he  had 
ever  known  her  to  be,  might,  under  the  influence  of 
her  rapid  success  and  prosperity,  change  a  little  (and 
such  change,  he  thought,  would  be  surely  natural!) 
— if  only  just  as  much  as  would  lessen  by  ever  so 
slight  a  degree  her  former  romantic  passion  for  the 
home  of  her  childhood.  And, — lurking  sometimes 
at  the  back  of  all  his  thoughts  there  crept  the  sug- 
gestive shadow  of  "Amadis  de  Jocelyn," — not  the 
French  Knight  of  old,  but  the  French  painter,  of 
whom  she  had  told  him  and  of  whose  very  existence 
he  had  a  strange  and  secret  distrust. 

On  this  turbulent  night  the  old  kitchen  looked 
very  peaceful  and  home-like, — the  open  fire  burned 
brightly,  flashing  its  flame-light  against  the  ceiling's 
huge  oak  beams — everything  was  swept  clean  and 
polished  to  the  utmost  point  of  perfection, — and  the 
table  on  which  Robin  rested  the  book  he  was  read- 
ing was  covered  with  a  tapestried  cloth,  embroid- 
ered in  many  colours,  dark  and  bright  contrasted 
cunningly,  with  an  effect  that  was  soothing  and 
restful  to  the  eyes.  In  the  centre  there  was  placed 
a  quaintly  shaped  jar  of  old  brown  lustre  which 
held  a  full  tall  bunch  of  golden-rod  and  deep  wine- 
coloured  dahlias, — a  posy  expressing  autumn  with  a 
greater  sense  of  gain  than  loss.  Robin  was  reading 
with  exemplary  patience  and  considerable  difficulty 
one  of  the  old  French  poetry  books  belonging  to  the 
"Sieur  Amadis  de  Jocelin,"  and  Priscilla's  small  glit- 
tering needle  flew  in  and  out  the  open-work  stitch- 
ery  of  a  linen  pillow-slip  she  was  mending  as  deftly 
as  any  embroideress  of  Tudor  times.  Over  the  old, 
crabbed  yet  delicately  fine  writing  of  the  "Sieur" 


416  INNOCENT 

whose  influence  on  Innocent's  young  mind  had  been 
so  pronounced  and  absolute,  and  in  Robin's  opinion 
so  malign,  he  pored  studiously,  slowly  mastering  the 
meaning  of  the  verses,  though  written  in  a  language 
he  had  never  cared  to  study.  He  was  conscious  of  a 
certain  suave  sweetness  and  melancholy  in  the  swing 
of  the  lines,  though  they  did  not  appeal  to  him  very 
forcibly. 

''En  un  cruel  orage 

On  me  laisse  perir; 
En  courant  au  naufrage 
Je  vois  chacun  me  plaindre  et  mil  me  secourir, 

Felicite  passee 
Qui  ne  peux  revenir 

Tourment  de  ma  pensee 
Que  n'ai-je  en  te  perdant  perdu  le  souvenir! 
Le  sort,  plein  d'injustice 

M'ayant  enfin  rendu 
Ce  reste  un  pur  supplice, 
Je  serais  plus  heureux  si  j'avais  tout  perdu !" 

A  sudden  swoop  of  the  wind  shook  the  very  raf- 
ters of  the  house  as  though  some  great  bird  had 
grasped  it  with  beak  and  talons,  and  Priscilla 
stopped  her  swift  needle,  drawing  it  out  to  its  full 
length  of  linen  thread  and  holding  it  there.  A 
strange  puzzled  look  was  on  her  face — she  seemed  to 
be  listening  intently.  Presently,  taking  off  her  spec- 
tacles, she  laid  them  down,  and  spoke  in  a  half 
whisper : 

"Mister  Robin!    Robin,  my  dear!" 

He  looked  up,  surprised  at  the  grave  wistfulness 
and  wonder  of  her  old  eyes. 

"Yes,  Priscilla?" 

"I'm  thinkin'  my  time  is  drawin'  short,  dear  lad!" 
she  said,  slowly — "I've  got  a  call,  an'  I'll  not  be 
much  longer  here!  That's  a  warnin'  for  me " 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT  417 

"A  warning?    Priscilla,  what  do  you  mean?" 

Drawing  in  her  needle  and  thread,  she  pricked  it 
through  the  linen  she  held  and  looked  full  at  him. 

"Didn't  ye  hear  it?"  she  asked.  • 

A  sudden  chill  crept  through  the  young  man's 
blood, — there  was  something  so  wan  and  mournful 
in  her  expression. 

"Dear  Priscilla,  you  are  dreaming!    Hear  what?" 

She  lifted  one  brown  wrinkled  hand  with  a  ges- 
ture of  attention. 

"The  crying  of  the  child!"  she  answered — "Cry- 
ing, crying,  crying!  Crying  for  me!" 

Robin  held  his  breath  and  listened.  The  wind  had 
for  the  moment  lessened  in  violence,  and  its  boom- 
ing roar  had  dropped  to  a  moaning  sigh.  Now  and 
again  there  was  a  pause  that  was  almost  silence,  and 
during  one  of  these  intervals  he  fancied — but  surely 
it  was  only  fancy! — that  he  actually  did  hear  a  faint 
human  cry.  He  looked  at  Priscilla  questioningly 
and  in  doubt, — she  met  his  eyes  with  a  fixed  and 
solemn  resignation  in  her  own. 

"It's  as  I  tell  you,"  she  said — "My  time  has  come! 
It's  for  me  the  child  is  calling — just  as  she  used  to 
call  whenever  she  wanted  anything." 

Robin  rose  slowly  and  moved  a  step  or  two  to- 
wards the  door.  The  storm  was  gathering  fresh 
force,  and  heavy  rain  pattered  against  the  windows 
making  a  continuous  steely  sound  like  the  clashing 
of  swords.  Straining  his  ears  to  close  attention,  he 
waited, — and  all  at  once  as  he  stood  in  suspense 
and  something  of  fear,  a  plaintive  sobbing  wail  crept 
thinly  above  the  noise  of  the  wind. 

"Priscilla!  .  .  .  Priscilla!"  There  was  no  mis- 
taking the  human  voice  this  time — and  Priscilla  got 
up  from  where  she  sat,  though  trembling  so  much 
that  she  had  to  lean  one  hand  on  the  table  to  steady 
herself. 


418  INNOCENT 

"Ye  heard  that,  surely!"  she  said. 

Robin  answered  her  by  a  look.  His  heart  beat 
thickly, — an  awful  fear  beset  him,  paralysing  his 
energies.  Was  Innocent  dead?  Was  that  pitiful 
wail  the  voice  of  her  departed  spirit  crying  at  the 
door  of  her  childhood's  home? 

"Priscilla!  ...  Oh,  Priscilla!" 

The  old  woman  straightened  her  bent  figure  and 
lifted  her  head. 

"Mister  Robin,  I  must  answer  that  call!"  she  said 
— "Storm  or  rain,  we've  no  right  to  sit  here  with 
the  child's  voice  crying  and  the  old  house  shut  and 
barred  against  her!  We  must  open  the  door!" 

He  could  not  speak — but  he  obeyed  her  gesture, 
and  went  quickly  out  of  the  kitchen  into  the  adja- 
cent hall, — there  he  unbarred  and  unlocked  the 
massive  old  entrance  door  and  threw  it  open.  A 
sheet  of  rain  flung  itself  in  his  face,  and  the  wind 
was  so  furious  that  for  a  moment  he  could  scarcely 
stand.  Then,  recovering  himself,  he  peered  into  the 
darkness  and  could  see  nothing, — till  all  at  once 
he  became  vaguely  aware  of  a  small  dark  object 
crouching  in  one  corner  of  the  deep  porch  like  a 
frightened  animal  or  a  lost  child.  He  stooped  and 
touched  it — it  was  wet  and  clammy — he  grasped  it 
more  firmly,  and  it  moved  under  his  hand  shudder- 
ingly  and  lifted  itself,  turning  a  white  face  up  to 
the  light  that  streamed  out  from  the  hall — a  face 
wan  and  death-like,  but  still  the  face  he  had  ever 
thought  the  sweetest  in  the  world — the  face  of  In- 
nocent !  With  a  loud  cry  of  mingled  terror  and  rap- 
ture, he  caught  her  up  and  held  her  to  his  heart. 

"Innocent! — My  little  love! — Innocent!" 

She  made  no  answer — no  sort  of  resistance.  Her 
little  body  hung  heavily  in  his  arms — her  head 
drooped  helplessly  against  his  shoulder. 

"Priscilla!"  he  called— "Priscilla!" 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT   419 

Priscilla  was  already  beside  him — she  had  hurried 
into  the  hall  directly  she  heard  his  exclamation  of 
fear  and  amazement,  and  now  as  she  saw  him  carry- 
ing the  forlorn  little  burden  tenderly  along  she 
threw  up  her  hands  with  a  piteous,  almost  despair- 
ing gesture. 

"God  save  us  all! — It's  the  child  herself!"  she 
exclaimed — "Mercy  on  the  poor  lamb! — what  can 
have  happened  to  her? — she's  half  drowned  with 
rain!" 

As  quickly  as  Robin's  strong  arms  could  bear 
her,  she  was  carried  gently  into  the  kitchen  and  laid 
in  Robin's  own  deep  arm-chair  by  the  fire.  Roused 
to  immediate  practical  service  and  with  all  her  su- 
perstitious terrors  at  an  end,  old  Priscilla  took  off  a 
soaked  little  velvet  hat  and  began  to  unfasten  a  wet 
mass  of  soft  silk  that  clung  round  the  fragile  little 
figure. 

"Go  and  bar  the  door  fast,  Mister  Robin,  my 
dear!"  she  said,  looking  up  at  the  young  man's  pale, 
agonised  face, — "We  don't  want  any  one  comin'  in 
here  to  see  the  child  in  trouble! — besides,  the  wind's 
enough  to  scare  a  body  to  death!  Poor  lamb,  poor 
lamb! — where  she  can  have  come  from  the  good 
Lord  only  knows!  It's  for  all  the  world  like  the 
night  when  she  was  left  here,  long  ago!  Lock  and 
bar  the  door,  dearie,  and  get  me  some  of  that  pre- 
cious old  wine  out  of  the  cupboard  in  the  best  par- 
lour." Here  her  active  fingers  came  upon  the  glit- 
tering diamond  pendant  in  the  shape  of  a  dove  that 
hung  by  its  slender  gold  chain  round  Innocent's 
neck.  She  unclasped  it,  looking  at  it  wonderingly — 
then  she  handed  it  to  Robin  who  regarded  it  with 
sombre,  grudging  eyes.  Was  it  a  love-gift? — and 
from  whom? 

"And  while  you're  about  helping  me,"  went  on 
Priscilla — "you  might  go  to  the  child's  room  and 


420  INNOCENT 

fetch  me  that  old  white  woolly  gown  she  used  to 
wear — it's  warm  and  soft,  and  we'll  put  it  on  her 
and  wrap  her  in  a  blanket  when  she  comes  to  her- 
self. She'll  be  all  right  presently." 

Like  a  man  in  a  moving  dream  he  obeyed,  and 
while  he  went  on  his  errands  Priscilla  managed  to 
get  off  some  of  the  dripping  garments  which  clung 
to  the  girl's  slight  form  as  closely  as  the  wrappings 
of  a  shroud.  Chafing  the  small  icy  hands,  she 
smoothed  the  drenched  fair  hair,  loosening  its  pins 
and  combs,  and  spreading  it  out  to  dry,  murmur- 
ing fond  words  of  motherly  pity  and  tenderness 
while  the  tears  trickled  slowly  down  her  furrowed 
cheeks. 

"My  poor  baby! — my  pretty  child!"  she  mur- 
mured— "What  has  broken  her  like  this? — The 
world's  been  too  rough  for  her — I  misdoubt  me  if 
her  fancies  about  love  an'  the  like  o'  that  nonsense 
aren't  in  the  mischief, — but  praise  the  Lord  that's 
brought  her  home  again,  an'  if  so  be  it  pleases  Him 
we'll  keep  her  home!" 

As  she  thought  this,  Innocent  suddenly  opened 
her  eyes.  Beautiful,  wild  eyes  that  stared  at  her 
wonderingly  without  recognition. 

"Amadis!"  The  voice  was  thin  and  faint,  but 
exquisitely  tender.  "Amadis!  How  kind  you  are! 
Ah,  yes! — at  last! — I  was  sure  you  did  not  mean  to 
be  cruel — I  knew  you  would  come  back  and  be  good 
to  me  again!  My  Amadis! — You  are  good! — you 
could  not  be  anything  else  but  good  and  true!" 
She  laughed  weakly  and  went  on  more  rapidly — "It 
is  raining — yes!  Oh,  yes — raining  very  much! — 
such  a  cold,  sharp  ram!  I've  walked  quite  a  long 
way — but  I  felt  I  must  come  back  to  you,  Amadis! 
— just  to  ask  you  once  more  to  say  a  kind  word — 
to  kiss  me  .  .  ." 

She  closed  her  eyes  again  and  her  head  fell  back 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT  421 

on  the  pillow  of  the  chair  in  which  she  lay.  Priscil- 
la's  heart  sank. 

"She  doesn't  know  what  she's  talking  about,  poor 
lamb!"  she  thought, — "Just  wandering  and  off  her 
head! — and  fancying  things  about  that  old  French 
knight  again!" 

Here  Robin  entered,  and  stood  a  moment,  lost  in 
a  maze  of  enchanted  misery  at  the  sight  of  the  piti- 
ful little  half-disrobed  figure  in  the  chair,  till  Pris- 
cilla  took  the  white  garment  he  had  been  sent  to 
fetch  out  of  his  passive  hand. 

"There,  dear  lad,  don't  look  like  that!"  she  said. 
"Go,  and  come  back  in  a  few  minutes  with  the  wine 
— we'll  be  ready  for  you  then.  Cheer  up! — she's 
opened  her  pretty  eyes  once — she'll  open  them  again 
directly  and  smile  at  you ! " 

He  moved  away  slowly  with  an  aching  heart,  and 
a,  tightness  in  his  throat  that  impelled  him  to  cry 
like  a  woman.  Innocent! — little  Innocent! — she 
who  had  once  been  all  brightness  and  gaiety, — was 
this  desolate,  half-dying,  stricken  creature  the  same 
girl?  Ah,  no!  Not  the  same!  Never  the  same  any 
more!  Some  numbing  blow  had  smitten  her, — 
some  withering  fire  had  swept  over  her,  and  she  was 
no  longer  what  she  once  had  been.  This  he  felt 
by  a  lover's  intuition, — intuition  keener  and  surer 
than  all  positive  knowledge;  and  not  the  faintest 
hope  stirred  within  him  that  she  would  ever  shake 
off  the  trance  of  that  death-in-life  into  which  she 
had  been  plunged  by  some  as  yet  unknown  disaster 
— unknown  to  him,  yet  dimly  guessed.  Meanwhile 
Priscilla's  loving  task  was  soon  done,  and  Innocent 
was  clothed,  warm  and  dry,  hi  one  of  the  old  hand- 
woven  woollen  gowns  she  had  been  accustomed  to 
wear  in  former  days,  and  a  thick  blanket  was 
wrapped  cosily  round  her.  She  was  still  more  or 
less  unconscious,  but  the  reviving  heat  gradually 


422  INNOCENT 

penetrated  her  body,  and  she  began  to  sigh  and 
move  restlessly.  She  opened  her  eyes  again  and 
fixed  them  on  the  bright  fire.  Robin  came  in  with 
the  glass  of  wine,  and  Priscilla  held  it  to  her  lips, 
forcing  her  to  swallow  a  few  drops. 

The  strong  cordial  started  a  little  pulse  of  warmth 
in  her  failing  blood,  and  she  made  an  effort  to  sit 
up.  She  looked  vaguely  round  her, — then  her  wan- 
dering gaze  fixed  itself  on  Priscilla's  anxious  old 
face,  and  a  faint  smile,  more  pitiful  than  tears,  trem- 
bled on  her  lips. 

"Priscilla!"  she  said — "I  believe  it  is  Priscilla! 
Oh,  dear  Priscilla!  I  called  you  but  you  would  not 
hear  or  answer  me!" 

"Oh,  my  lamb,  I  heard  ye  right  enough!" — and 
Priscilla  fondled  and  warmed  the  girl's  passive  hands 
— "But  I  couldn't  think  it  was  yourself — I  thought  I 
was  dreaming " 

"So  did  I!"  she  answered  feebly— "I  thought  I 
was  dreaming  .  .  .  yes! — I  have  been  dreaming 
such  a  long,  long  tune !  All  dreams!  I  have  walked 
through  the  rain — it  was  very  dark  and  the  wind 
was  cold  and  cruel — but  I  walked  on  and  on — I 
don't  know  how  I  came — but  I  wanted  to  get  home 
to  Briar  Farm — do  you  know  Briar  Farm?" 

Stricken  to  the  soul  by  the  look  of  the  wistful 
eyes  expressing  a  mind  in  chaos,  Priscilla  answered 
gently— 

"You're  in  Briar  Farm  now,  dearie! — Surely  you 
know  you  are!  This  is  your  own  old  home — don't 
you  know  it? — don't  you  remember  the  old  kitchen? 
— of  course  you  do!  There,  there! — look  up  and 
see!" 

She  lifted  her  head  and  gazed  about  her  in  a  lost 
way. 

"No!"  she  murmured — "I  wish  I  could  believe  it, 
but  I  cannot.  I  believe  nothing  now.  It  is  all 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT   423 

strange  to  me — I  have  lost  the  way  home,  and  I 
shall  never  find  it — never — never!"  Here  she  sud- 
denly pointed  to  Robin  standing  aloof  in  utter 
misery. 

"Who  is  that?"  she  asked. 

Irresistibly  impelled  by  love,  fear,  and  pity,  he 
came  and  knelt  beside  her. 

"It's  Robin!"  he  said — "Dear  Innocent,  don't  you 
know  me?" 

She  touched  his  hair  with  one  little  hand,  smiling 
like  a  pleased  child. 

"Robin?"  she  queried — "Oh,  no! — you  cannot  be 
Robin — he  is  ever  so  many  miles  away!"  She 
looked  at  him  curiously, — then  laughed,  a  cold, 
mirthless  little  laugh.  "I  thought  for  a  moment  you 
might  be  Amadis — his  hair  is  like  yours,  thick  and 
soft — you  know  him,  of  course — he  is  the  great 
painter,  Amadis  de  Jocelyn — all  the  world  has  heard 
of  him!  He  went  out  just  now  and  shut  the  door 
and  locked  it — but  he  will  come  back — yes! — he 
will  comeback!" 

Robin  heard  and  understood — the  whole  explana- 
tion of  her  misery  suddenly  flashed  on  his  mind,  and 
inwardly  he  cursed  the  man  who  had  wreaked  such 
havoc  on  her  trusting  soul.  All  at  once  she  sprang 
up  with  a  wild  cry. 

"He  will  come  back — he  must  come  back!  Ama- 
dis!— Amadis! — you  will  not  leave  me  all  alone?— 
No,  no,  you  cannot  be  so  cruel!"  She  stretched 
out  her  arms  as  though  to  embrace  some  invisible 
treasure  in  the  air — "Priscilla!  .  .  .  Priscilla!"  Then 
as  Priscilla  took  her  gently  round  the  waist  and 
tried  to  calm  her  she  began  to  laugh  again.  "The 
old  motto! — you  remember  it? — the  motto  of  the 
Sieur  Amadis  de  Jocelin! — 'Mon  cceur  me  soutien!' 
You  know  what  it  means — 'My  heart  sustains  me.' 
Yes — and  you  know  why  his  heart  is  so  strong? 


424  INNOCENT 

Because  it  is  made  of  stone!  A  stone  heart  can 
sustain  anything! — it  is  hard  and  firm  and  cold — 
no  rain,  no  tears  can  soften  it! — no  flowers  ever 
grow  on  it — it  does  not  beat — it  feels  nothing — 
nothing!" — and  her  hands  dropped  wearily  at  her 
sides.  "It  is  not  like  my  heart !  my  heart  burns  and 
aches — it  is  a  foolish  heart,  and  my  brain  is  a  fool- 
ish brain — I  cannot  think  with  it — it  is  all  dark 
and  confused!  And  I  have  no  one  to  help  me — I 
am  all  alone  in  the  world!" 

"Innocent!"  cried  Robin  passionately — "Oh,  my 
love,  my  darling! — try  to  recall  your  dear  wander- 
ing mind!  You  are  here  in  the  old  home  you  used 
to  love  so  well — you  are  not  alone — you  never  shall 
be  alone  any  more.  I  am  with  you  to  love  you  and 
take  care  of  you — I  have  loved  you  always — I  shall 
love  you  till  I  die!" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sudden  smile. 

"Robin! — It  is  Robin! — you  poor  boy!  You  al- 
ways talked  like  that! — but  you  must  not  love  me, 
— I  have  no  love  to  give  you — I  would  make  you 
happy  if  I  could,  but  I  cannot!" 

A  violent  shudder  as  of  icy  cold  shook  her  limbs — 
she  stretched  out  her  hands  pitifully. 

"Would  you  take  me  somewhere  to  sleep?"  she 
murmured — "I  am  very  tired !  And  when  he  comes 
you  will  wake  me — I  will  not  keep  him  a  moment 
waiting!  Tell  him  I  am  quite  well — and  that  I 
knew  he  did  not  mean  to  be  unkind " 

Her  voice  broke—she  tottered  and  nearly  fell. 
Robin  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  laid  her  gently 
back  in  the  chair,  where  she  seemed  to  lapse  into 
unconsciousness.  He  turned  a  white,  desperate  face 
on  Priscilla. 

"What  is  to  be  done?"  he  asked,— "Shall  I  go 
for  the  doctor?" 

Priscilla  shook  her  head. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT  425 

"The  doctor  would  be  no  use,"  she  answered — 
"She's  just  fairly  worn  out  and  wants  rest.  Her 
little  room  is  ready, — I've  kept  it  aired,  and  the  bed 
made  warm  and  cosy  ever  since  she  went  away — 
lest  she  should  ever  come  back  sudden  like  .  .  . 
could  you  carry  her  up,  d'ye  think?  She'll  be  bet- 
ter in  her  bed — and  she  would  come  to  herself 
quicker." 

Gently  and  with  infinite  tenderness  he  lifted  the 
girl  as  though  she  were  a  baby  and  carried  her 
lightly  up  the  broad  oak  staircase,  Priscilla  leading 
the  way — and  soon  they  brought  her  into  her  own 
room,  unchanged  since  she  had  occupied  it,  and 
kept  by  Priscilla's  loving  and  half  superstitious  care 
ready  for  her  return  at  any  moment.  Laying  her 
down  on  her  little  bed,  Robin  left  her,  though  hardly 
able  to  tear  himself  away,  and  going  downstairs 
again  he  flung  himself  into  a  chair  and  wept  like  a 
child  for  the  ruin  and  wreck  of  the  fair  young  life 
which  might  have  been  the  joy  and  sunshine  of  his 
days! 

"Amadis  de  Jocelyn!"  he  muttered — "A  curse  on 
him!  Why  should  the  founder  of  this  house  bring 
evil  on  us? — Rising  up  like  a  ghost  to  overshadow 
us  and  spoil  our  happiness? — Let  the  house  perish 
and  all  its  traditions  if  it  must  be  so,  rather  than 
that  she  should  suffer! — for  she  is  innocent!" 

Yes — she  was  quite  innocent, — the  little  "base- 
born"  intruder  on  the  unbroken  line  and  history  of 
the  Jocelyns! — and  yet — it  was  with  a  kind  of  hor- 
ror that  the  memory  of  that  unbroken  line  and  his- 
tory recurred  to  him.  Was  there — could  there  be 
anything  real  in  the  long  prevalent  idea  that  if  the 
direct  line  of  the  Jocelyns  were  broken,  the  peace 
and  prosperity  so  long  attendant  on  the  old  farm 
would  be  at  an  end?  He  put  the  thought  away 
with  a  sense  of  anger. 


426  INNOCENT 

"No,  no!  She  could  only  bring  joy  wherever  she 
went — no  matter  who  her  parents  were,  or  how  she 
was  born,  my  poor  little  one! — she  has  suffered  for 
no  fault  at  all  of  her  own!" 

He  listened  to  the  dying  clamour  of  the  storm — 
the  wind  still  careered  round  the  house,  making  a 
noise  like  the  beating  wings  of  a  great  bird,  but  the 
rain  was  ceasing  and  there  was  a  deeper  sense  of 
quiet.  An  approaching  step  startled  him — he  looked 
up  and  saw  Priscilla.  She  smiled  encouragingly. 

"Cheer  up,  Mister  Robin!"  she  said.  .  .  .  "She 
is  much  better — she  knows  where  she  is  now,  bless 
her  heart! — and  she's  glad  to  be  at  home.  Let  her 
alone — and  if  she  'as  a  good  sleep  she'll  be  a'most 
herself  again  in  the  morning.  I'll  leave  my  bedroom 
door  open  all  night — an'  I'll  be  lookin'  in  at  'er 
when  she  doesn't  know  it,  watchin'  her  lovin'  like 
for  all  I'm  worth !  .  .  .  so  don't  ye  worry,  my  lad! — 
there's  a  good  God  in  Heaven  an'  it'll  all  come 
right!" 

Robin  took  her  rough  work-worn  hands  and 
clasped  them  in  his  own. 

"Bless  you,  you  dear  woman!"  he  said,  huskily. 
"Do  you  really  think  so?  Will  she  be  herself  again? 
— our  own  dear  little  Innocent?" 

"Of  course  she  will!"  and  Priscilla  blinked  away 
the  tears  in  her  eyes — "An'  you'll  mebbe  win  'er 
yet! — The  Lord's  ways  are  ever  wonderful  an'  past 
findin'  out— — " 

A  clear  voice  calling  from  the  staircase  interrupted 
them. 

"Priscilla!    Robin!" 

Running  to  answer  the  summons,  they  saw  Inno- 
cent at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  a  little  vision  of  pale, 
smiling  sweetness,  in  her  white  wool  wrapper — her 
hair  falling  loose  over  her  shoulders.  She  kissed  her 
hands  to  them. 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT   427 

"Only  to  say  good-night!"  she  said, — "I  know 
just  where  I  am  now! — it  was  so  foolish  of  me  to 
forget!  I  am  at  home — and  this  is  Briar  Farm — 
and  I  feel  almost  well  and — happy !  Robin ! " 

He  sprang  up  the  stairs  and,  kneeling,  took  one  of 
her  hands  and  kissed  it. 

"That's  my  true  knight!"  she  said.  "Dear  Robin! 
You  deserve  everything  good — and  if  it  will  give 
you  joy  I  will  marry  you!" 

"Marry  me!"  he  cried,  scarcely  believing  his  ears 
— "Innocent!  You  will? — Dearest  little  love,  you 
will?" 

She  looked  down  upon  him  where  he  knelt,  like 
some  small  compassionate  angel. 

"Yes— I  will!— To  please  you  and  Dad!— To- 
morrow if  you  like !  But  you  must  say  good-night 
now  and  let  me  sleep!" 

He  kissed  her  hand  again. 

"Good-night,  sweet!" 

She  started — and  drew  her  hand  away. 

"He  said  that  once, — and  once — in  a  letter — he 
wrote  it.  It  seemed  to  me  beautiful! — 'Good-night, 
sweet!''  She  waited  as  if  to  think  a  moment, 
then — 

"Good-night!"  again  she  said — "Do  not  be  anx- 
ious about  me — I  shall  sleep  well!  Good-night!" 

She  waved  her  hand  once  more,  and  disappeared 
like  a  little  white  phantom  in  the  dark  corridor. 

"Does  she  mean  it,  do  you  think?"  asked  Robin, 
turning  eagerly  to  Priscilla — "Will  she  marry  me, 
after  all?" ' 

"I  shouldn't  wonder!"  and  the  old  woman  nodded 
sagaciously — "Let  her  sleep  on  it,  lad! — an'  you 
sleep  on  it,  too! — The  storm's  nigh  over — an'  mebbe 
our  dark  cloud  'as  a  silver  lining!" 

Half-an-hour  later  on  she  went  to  her  own  bed — 
and  on  the  way  thought  she  would  peep  into  Inno- 


428  INNOCENT 

cent's  room  and  see  how  she  fared — but  the  door 
was  locked.  Vexed  at  her  own  lack  of  foresight  in 
not  possessing  herself  of  the  key  before  the  girl  had 
been  carried  to  her  room,  she  left  her  own  door  open 
that  she  might  be  ready  in  case  of  any  call — and  for 
a  long  time  she  lay  awake  watchfully,  thinking  and 
wondering  what  the  next  day  would  bring  forth— 
till  at  last  anxiety  and  bewilderment  of  mind  were 
overcome  by  sheer  fatigue  and  she  slept.  Not  so 
Robin  Clifford.  Excited  and  full  of  new  hope 
which  he  hardly  dared  breathe  to  himself,  he  made 
no  attempt  to  rest — but  paced  his  room  up  and 
down,  up  and  down,  like  a  restless  animal  in  a  cage, 
waiting  with  hardly  endurable  impatience  for  the 
dawn.  Thoughts  chased  each  other  in  his  brain  too 
quickly  to  evolve  any  practical  order  out  of  them, — 
he  tried  to  plan  out  what  he  would  do  with  the 
coming  day — how  he  would  let  the  farm  people 
know  that  Innocent  had  returned — how  he  would 
send  a  telegram  to  her  friend  Miss  Leigh  in  London 
to  say  she  was  safe  in  her  old  home — and  then  the 
recollection  of  her  literary  success  swept  over  his 
mind  like  a  sort  of  cloud — her  fame! — the  celebrity 
she  had  won  in  that  wider  world  outside  Briar  Farm 
— was  it  fair  or  honest  to  her  that  he  should  take 
advantage  of  her  weak  and  half-distraught  condition 
and  allow  her  to  become  his  wife? — she,  whose 
genius  was  already  acknowledged  by  a  wide  and 
discerning  public,  and  who  might  be  considered  as 
only  at  the  beginning  of  a  brilliant  and  prosperous 
career? 

"For,  after  all,  I  am  only  a  farmer,"  he  said — • 
"And  with  the  friends  she  has  made  for  herself  she 
might  marry  any  one!  The  best  way  for  me  will 
be  to  give  her  time — time  to  recover  from  this — this 
terrible  trouble  she  seems  to  have  on  her  mind — 
this  curse  of  that  fancy  for  Amadis  de  Jocelyn! — 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT   429 

by  Heaven,  I'd  kill  him  without  a  minute's  grace  if 
I  had  him  in  my  power!" 

Still  pacing  to  and  fro  and  thinking,  he  wore  the 
slow  hours  away,  and  at  last  the  grey  peep  of  a 
misty,  silvery  dawn  peered  through  his  window.  He 
threw  the  lattice  open  and  leaned  out — the  scent  of 
the  wet  fields  and  trees  after  the  night's  storm  was 
sweet  and  refreshing,  and  copied  his  heated  blood. 
He  reviewed  the  whole  situation  with  greater  calm- 
ness,— and  decided  that  he  must  not  be  selfish 
enough  to  grasp  at  the  proffered  joy  of  marriage 
with  the  only  woman  he  had  ever  loved  unless  he 
could  be  made  sure  that  it  would  be  for  her  own 
happiness. 

"Just  now  she  hardly  knows  what  she  is  saying  or 
doing,"  he  mused,  sadly — "Some  great  disappoint- 
ment has  broken  her  spirit  and  she  is  wounded  and 
in  pain, — but  when  she  is  quite  herself  and  has  mas- 
tered her  grief,  she  will  see  things  in  a  different  light 
— she  will  realise  the  fame  she  has  won, — the  bril- 
liant name  she  has  made — yes! — she  must  think  of 
all  this — she  must  not  wrong  herself  or  injure  her 
position  by  marrying  me!" 

The  silver-grey  dawn  brightened  steadily,  and  in 
the  eastern  sky  long  folds  of  silky  mist  began  to 
shred  away  in  thin  strips  of  delicate  vapour  showing 
peeps  of  pale  amber  between, — fitful  touches  of 
faint  rose-colour  flitted  here  and  there  against  the 
gold, — and  with  a  sense  of  relief  that  the  day  was 
at  last  breaking  and  that  the  sky  showed  promise  of 
the  sun,  he  left  his  room,  and  stepping  noiselessly 
into  the  outside  corridor,  listened.  Priscilla's  door 
was  wide  open — and  as  he  passed  he  looked  in, — she 
was  fast  asleep.  He  could  not  hear  a  sound, — and 
though  he  walked  on  cautious  tip-toe  along  the  lit- 
tle passage  which  led  to  the  room  where  Innocent 
slept  and  waited  there  a  minute  or  two,  straining 


430  INNOCENT 

his  ears  for  any  little  sigh,  or  sob,  or  whisper,  none 
came; — all  was  silent.  Quietly  he  went  downstairs, 
and,  opening  the  hall  door,  stepped  out  into  the 
garden.  Every  shrub  and  plant  was  dripping  with 
wet — many  were  beaten  down  and  broken  by  the 
fury  of  the  night's  storm,  and  there  was  more  deso- 
lation than  beauty  in  the  usually  well-ordered  and 
carefully-tended  garden.  The  confusion  of  fallen 
flowers  and  trailing  stems  made  a  melancholy  im- 
pression on  his  mind, — at  another  time  he  would 
scarcely  have  heeded  what  was,  after  all,  only  the 
natural  havoc  wrought  by  high  winds  and  heavy 
rains, — but  this  morning  there  seemed  to  be  more 
than  the  usual  ruin.  He  walked  slowly  round  to 
the  front  of  the  house — and  there  looked  up  at  the 
projecting  lattice  window  of  Innocent's  room.  It 
was  wide  open.  Surprised,  he  stopped  underneath 
it  and  looked  up,  half  expecting  to  see  her, — but 
only  a  filmy  white  curtain  moved  gently  with  the 
first  stirrings  of  the  morning  air.  He  stood  a  mo- 
ment or  two  irresolute,  recalling  the  night  when  he 
had  climbed  up  by  the  natural  ladder  of  the  old 
wistaria  and  had  heard  her  tell  the  plaintive  little 
story  of  her  "base-born"  condition,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  and  the  pale  moonshine  lighting  up  her  face 
like  the  face  of  an  angel  in  a  dream. 

"And  she  had  written  her  first  book  already 
then ! "  he  thought — "She  had  all  that  genius  in  her 
and  I  never  knew!" 

A  deeper  brightness  in  the  sky  began  to  glow,  and 
a  light  spread  itself  over  the  land — the  sun  was  ris- 
ing. He  looked  towards  the  low  hills  in  the  east, 
and  saw  the  golden  run  lifting  itself  like  the  edge 
of  a  cup  above  the  horizon, — and  as  it  ascended 
higher  and  higher,  some  fleecy  white  clouds  rolled 
softly  away  from  its  glittering  splendour,  showing 
glimpses  of  tenderest  ethereal  blue.  A  still  and 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT   431 

solemn  beauty  invested  all  the  visible  scene, — a 
sacred  peace — the  peace  of  an  obedient  and  law- 
abiding  nature  wherein  man  alone  creates  strange 
discord.  Robin  looked  long  and  lovingly  at  the 
fair  prospect, — the  wide  meadows,  the  stately 
trees  warmly  tinted  with  autumnal  glory,  and 
thought — 

"Could  she  be  happier  than  here? — safe  in  the 
arms  of  love? — safe  and  sheltered  from  all  trouble 
in  the  home  she  once  idolised?" 

He  would  not  answer  his  own  inward  query — and 
suddenly  the  fancy  seized  him  to  call  her  by  name, 
as  he  had  called  her  on  that  moonlit  night  long  ago, 
and  persuade  her  to  look  out  on  the  familiar  fields 
shining  in  the  sunlight  of  the  morning. 

"Innocent!" 

There  was  no  answer. 

He  called  a  little  louder — 

"Innocent!" 

Still  silence.  A  robin  hopped  out  from  the  cover 
of  wet  leaves  and  peered  at  him  questioningly  with 
its  bold  bright  eye.  Acting  on  an  irresistible  impulse 
he  set  his  foot  on  the  gnarled  root  of  the  old  wis- 
taria and  started  to  climb  to  the  window-sill.  Three 
minutes  sufficed  him  to  reach  it — he  looked  into 
the  little  room, — the  room  which  had  formerly  been 
the  study  of  the  "Sieur  Amadis  de  Jocelin" — and 
there  seated  at  the  old  oak  table  with  her  head 
bowed  down  upon  her  hands  and  her  hair  covering 
her  as  with  a  veil,  was  Innocent.  The  sunlight 
flashed  brightly  in  upon  her — and  immediately 
above  her  the  golden  beams  traced  out  as  with  a 
pencil  of  light  the  arms  of  the  old  French  knight 
with  the  faded  rose  and  blue  of  his  shield  and  motto 
illumining  with  curiously  marked  distinctness  the 
words  he  himself  had  carved  beneath  his  own  her- 
aldic emblems: 


432  INNOCENT 

<cWho  here  seekynge  Forgetfulness 
Did  here  fynde  Peace!" 

She  was  veiy  strangely  still, — and  a  cold  fear  sud- 
denly caught  at  Robin's  heart  and  half  choked  his 
breath. 

"Innocent!"  he  cried.  Then,  leaping  into  the 
room  like  a  man  in  sudden  frenzy,  he  rushed  towards 
that  motionless  little  figure — threw  his  arms  about 
it — lifted  it — caressed  it  ... 

"Innocent!    Look  at  me!    Speak  to  me!" 

The  fair  head  fell  passively  back  against  his  shoul- 
der with  all  its  wealth  of  rippling  hair — the  fragile 
form  he  clasped  was  helpless,  lifeless,  breathless! — 
and  with  a  great  shuddering  sob  of  agony,  he  real- 
ised the  full  measure  of  his  life's  despair.  Innocent 
was  dead! — and  for  her,  as  for  the  "Sieur  Amadis," 
the  quaint  words  shining  above  her  in  the  morning 
sunlight  were  aptly  fitted — 

'Who  here  seekynge  Forgetfulness 
Did  here  fynde  Peace!" 


Many  things  in  life  come  too  late  to  be  of  rescue 
or  service,  and  justice  is  always  tardy  in  arrival. 
Too  late  was  Pierce  Armitage,  after  long  years  of 
absence,  to  give  his  innocent  child  the  simple  her- 
itage of  a  father's  acknowledgment;  he  could  but 
look  upon  her  dead  face  and  lay  flowers  on  her  in 
her  little  coffin.  The  world  heard  of  the  sudden 
death  of  the  young  and  brilliant  writer  with  a  faint- 
ly curious  concern — but  soon  forgot  that  she  had 
ever  existed.  No  one  knew,  no  one  guessed  the 
story  of  her  love  for  the  French  painter,  Amadis  de 
Jocelyn — he  was  abroad  at  the  time  of  her  death, 
and  only  three  persons  secretly  connected  him  with 


HER  FANCY  AND  HIS  FACT   433 

the  sorrow  of  her  end — and  these  were  Lord  Blythe, 
Miss  Leigh  and  Robin  Clifford.  Yet  even  these  said 
nothing,  restrained  by  the  thought  of  casting  the 
smallest  scandal  on  the  sweet  lustre  of  her  name. 
And  Amadis  de  Jocelyn  himself? — had  he  no  re- 
gret?— no  pity?  If  the  truth  must  be  told,  he  was 
more  relieved  than  pained, — more  flattered  than 
sorry!  The  girl  had  died  for  him, — well! — that  was 
more  or  less  a  pleasing  result  of  his  power!  She  was 
a  silly  child — obsessed  by  a  "fancy" — it  was  not  his 
fault  if  he  could  not  live  up  to  that  "fancy" — he 
liked  "facts."  His  picture  of  her  was  the  success  of 
the  Salon  that  year,  and  he  was  admired  and  con- 
gratulated,— this  was  enough  for  him. 

"One  of  your  victims,  Amadis?"  asked  a  vivacious 
society  woman  he  knew,  critically  studying  the  por- 
trait on  the  first  day  of  its  exhibition. 

He  nodded,  smilingly. 

"Really?    And  yet— Innocent?" 

He  nodded  again. 

"Very  much  so!    She  is  dead!" 

*  «  *  *  * 

Sorrow  and  joy,  strangely  intermingled,  divided 
the  last  years  of  life  for  good  Miss  Leigh.  The  shock 
of  the  loss  and  death  of  the  girl  to  whom  she  had 
become  profoundly  attached,  followed  by  the  star- 
tling discovery  that  her  old  lover  Pierce  Armitage 
was  alive,  proved  almost  too  much  for  her  frail 
nerves — but  her  gratitude  to  God  for  the  joy  of 
seeing  the  beloved  face  once  again,  and  hearing  the 
beloved  voice,  was  so  touching  and  sincere  that 
Armitage,  smitten  to  the  heart  by  the  story  of  her 
long  fidelity  and  her  tenderness  for  his  forsaken 
daughter,  offered  to  marry  her,  earnestly  praying 
her  to  let  him  share  life  with  her  to  the  end.  This 
she  gently  refused, — but  for  the  rest  of  her  days 
she — with  him  and  Lord  Blythe — made  a  trio  of 


434  INNOCENT 

friends, — a  compact  of  affection  and  true  devotion 
such  as  is  seldom  known  in  this  work-a-day  world. 
They  were  nearly  always  together, — and  the  mem- 
ory of  Innocent,  with  her  young  life's  little  struggle 
against  fate  ending  so  soon  in  disaster,  was  a  link 
never  to  be  broken  save  by  death,  which  breaks  all. 


L'ENVOI 

A  FEW  evenings  since,  I  who  have  written  this  true 
story  of  a  young  girl's  romantic  fancy,  passed  by 
Briar  Farm.  The  air  was  very  still,  and  a  red  sun 
was  sinking  in  a  wintry  sky.  The  old  Tudor  farm- 
house looked  beautiful  in  the  clear  half-frosty  light 
— but  the  trees  in  the  old  bye  road  were  leafless,  and 
though  the  courtyard  gate  stood  open  there  were 
no  flowers  to  be  seen  beyond,  and  no  doves  flying  to 
and  fro  among  the  picturesque  gables.  I  knew,  as 
I  walked  slowly  along,  that  just  a  mile  distant,  in 
the  small  churchyard  of  the  village,  Innocent,  the 
"base-born"  child  of  sorrow,  lay  asleep  by  her 
"Dad,"  the  last  of  the  Jocelyns, — I  knew  also  that 
not  far  off  from  their  graves,  the  mortal  remains  of 
the  faithful  Priscilla  were  also  resting  in  peace — 
and  I  felt,  with  a  heavy  sadness  at  my  heart,  that 
the  fame  of  the  old  house  was  wearing  out  and  that 
presently  its  tradition,  like  many  legendary  and 
romantic  things,  would  soon  be  forgotten.  But  just 
at  the  turn  of  a  path,  where  a  low  stile  gives  access 
to  the  road,  I  saw  a  man  standing,  his  arms  folded 
and  leaning  on  the  topmost  bar  of  the  stile — a  man 
neither  old  nor  young,  with  a  strong  quiet  face,  and 
almost  snow-white  hair — a  man  quite  alone,  whose 
attitude  and  bearing  expressed  the  very  spirit  of 
solitude.  I  knew  him  for  the  master  of  the  farm — 
a  man  greatly  honoured  throughout  the  neighbour- 
hood for  justice  and  kindness  to  all  whom  he  em- 
ployed,— but  also  a  man  stricken  by  a  great  sorrow 
for  which  there  can  be  no  remedy. 

435 


436  INNOCENT 

"Will  he  never  marry?"  I  thought, — but  as  I 
put  the  question  to  myself  I  dismissed  it  almost  as 
a  blasphemy.  For  Robin  Clifford  is  one  of  those 
rarest  souls  among  men  who  loves  but  once,  and 
when  love  is  lost  finds  it  not  again.  Except, — per- 
haps?— in  a  purer  world  than  ours,  where  our 
"fancies"  may  prove  to  have  had  a  surer  foundation 
than  our  "facts." 


THE  END 


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